


Under Your Skin

by Sindaria



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: AKA: Seteth is a surprisingly passionate man and Byleth is way into it, Don't let your schemes be dreams, Enemies to Lovers, F!Byleth, F/M, Golden Deer Route, If you like oodles of sexual tension, Just assume all the Seteth spoilers are in here, Seteth & Flayn A support spoilers, Seteth & Flayn paralogue spoilers, then boy do I have a fic for you
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-14
Updated: 2019-11-03
Packaged: 2020-10-18 11:15:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 64,061
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20638256
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sindaria/pseuds/Sindaria
Summary: Byleth makes a plan to crack Seteth's no-nonsense demeanor and it backfires spectacularly.Or: Why you should always take advice from Claude.





	1. The Wily Deer

**Author's Note:**

> I'm getting to a very heavy, emotionally-draining part in my Dorothea/Byleth epic and I needed a bit of a break from angst, so I decided to write something that's completely different in tone. This has been in my head for a while and I really hope to do it justice. Rated T now, but uh... well, it won't stay that way for long, probably. I mean you see where this is going. It can't be stopped.

“I will acknowledge that the battle prowess of the Golden Deer students has marginally improved since your time here, but these exam scores are absolutely untenable.” 

Byleth sits in the lone chair before Seteth’s desk, feeling as if she’s ten years old again and being criticized by her father for not being able to handle a properly weighted sword. No. That’s not an accurate comparison. Even Jeralt never treated her with quite so much open judgment as Rhea’s advisor. 

It’s strange to her that exams are even turned over to him. It feels deeply unnecessary, as such things should only be between Byleth and her students. It’s her job to help them improve, and she doesn’t need the outside input of someone who only cares about results.

He holds up a sheet of paper from the stack, Byleth’s handwriting scrawled across the top in the form of a giant E. “Honestly, Professor. How did Hilda manage to fail such a basic test?’ 

“You’d be surprised how consistently Hilda can fail when she puts her mind to it,” Byleth says dryly, the slightest twitch of her lips betraying the joke.

Not that it matters. Seteth never picks up on her humor. And when he does, it’s always met with a disapproving frown. 

“I know you are new to teaching, and I do not wish to judge you too harshly--” 

Byleth doesn't bother to stifle the soft snort of amusement. 

“--but your students represent the Academy as a whole. If you need help teaching your class, I can assist for a time.” 

The offer might be well-meant, but the idea of Seteth hovering as she teaches her students is something her mind instantly rebels against. She knows the type of criticism he’s fond of giving--he gives it to her all the time, with little regard for how he comes across. While Byleth can handle it, some of her fawns cannot. Marianne would absolutely crumble under such harsh words, and all the progress she’s made would be destroyed with one thoughtless remark. 

Byleth’s fingers curl around the arm of the chair. She’s only been teaching at the Officer’s Academy for six months, but already she’s fiercely protective of her students. 

“No, thank you,” she says, the words coming out more terse than she intends. 

Sea green eyes meet hers and Byleth inclines her chin, refusing to yield. He might have more experience, but that doesn’t give him the right to look at her as if she’s a disaster waiting to happen. He doesn’t get to pinpoint every one of her insecurities and march them out for everyone to see. 

“There is no place for your pride here, Professor. Your students deserve your best efforts, and if that means recruiting outside help…” 

She grits her teeth, her jaw clenching so hard she feels the slightest flash of pain. On days like this, she misses being a mercenary. Solving conflicts with a sword in hand is simple. Straightforward. But Byleth has never been very good at using her words, especially when those words need to describe her feelings.

“My students deserve to learn from someone who actually knows them and understands what they need on an individual level,” she grates out. “_Pride_ has nothing to do with it.” 

“You needn’t get defensive. I--” 

“What else am I supposed to do when you’re constantly attacking me?” She didn’t intend to say those words, but she won’t apologize for them now that they’re out there. “I know you don’t trust me, Seteth, and that’s fine. But if all of this is you trying to run me off, you might as well save your breath. I’m not going anywhere.” 

She doesn’t even realize she’s standing until she reflects on the fact that for once, he isn’t towering over her. Instead her hands are on his desk and she’s leaning over it, over him, in a position of power for the first time since she met him. Something about it resonates with her, but that feeling is quickly dispelled when Seteth stands. 

Byleth never considered herself to be _that_ short until she met this man. Even if he wasn’t absurdly tall, he makes her feel small by comparison, in every way. And she absolutely hates it. 

“I--” 

She shakes her head and pushes away from his desk. If he’s going to treat her like some petulant child, then she’ll act the part. “If you’ll excuse me, I clearly need to go speak to my students.” 

For the briefest moment, she swears she sees something like regret pass through his eyes. It’s gone in an instant, though, and so uncharacteristic of her interactions with Seteth that Byleth doesn’t trust her own eyes. The expression he wears afterward--lips pressed tightly together, chin inclined just so--seems far more suited to the man. 

“Very well. Should you change your mind, you need only ask.” 

Byleth strides toward the door as calmly and confidently as she’s able, pulling it closed behind her as that’s his usual preference. That and, frankly, she doesn’t want him to see the way her fingers curl against her palms, or the twitch of them as she very strongly considers gracing him with a gesture she learned from her father’s friends--much to Jeralt’s chagrin. 

She doesn’t _hate_ Seteth. On good days, she doesn’t even dislike him. He’s a deeply loyal man who protects those he cares about to a fault, something she can respect. But most of Seteth’s good days don’t seem to involve her. It’s as if the mere sight of her brings out his worst characteristics, making him all but intolerable. 

Frankly, she’s had enough. She’s tired of being treated like a child. _She_ might not feel qualified to be a professor here, but Rhea foisted the job upon her all the same. And now that she’s here, she sure as hell isn’t going anywhere. Her fawns need her. 

And they really do need to buckle down and study.

Byleth is well aware of that as she sits in the Golden Deer classroom marking essays on tactics. Most of them are… fine. Passable. Lorenz greatly embellishes, Leonie tries too hard, Marianne’s self-consciousness comes through in every hesitant pen stroke. Ignatz clearly got his answers straight from her lecture. But Raphael changes topics halfway through, predictably writing about food for several paragraphs, then trying to tie it back into the assignment. Hilda gives the shortest essay Byleth has ever seen, and now she understands why her laziest student asked her the minimum length for the paper. 

Claude is in a class by himself, as always. His talent as a schemer makes him an excellent tactician, but he goes on long tangents for his own amusement--and probably for hers. On any other day, his musings about the tactical prowess of his fellow students would make her laugh, but not today. 

Today she holds her grading pen in a death grip, circling extraneous words and phrases, writing notes in the margin, and scrawling a massive C across the top. She finishes right as her students return for afternoon lessons, and Byleth is looking forward to more hands-on training. At least if she has a weapon in her hands she can work out some of this frustration. Not to mention most of her students respond better to more practical lessons. 

Neither she nor they can escape the grades on these essays, though, and as they settle in, she hands back the papers. “Good effort. Some more than others…” 

She taps the D on Hilda’s paper, raising her brows at the young woman. Hilda just shrugs and smiles up at her with saccharine sweetness. 

“Sorry, Professor. I guess I’m just not cut out to be a strategist.” 

“Every week you ask me if you can stay on the sidelines and support your classmates during battle. What do you expect to be doing there if not strategizing?” 

“Providing moral support, obviously,” she answers. 

Byleth feels a strong urge to pinch the bridge of her nose, but the gesture reminds her too much of Seteth, so she refrains. 

“Hey, Teach. I think you wrote the wrong grade on mine.” Claude holds up his paper, his tone one of easy confidence. 

“You spent an entire paragraph talking about how much easier everything would be if you had one of the Heroes Relics.” 

“Am I wrong?” His gaze flicks expectantly to her sword belt, where her own relic weapon rests in its scabbard. 

“I appreciate your ability to consider other outcomes based on different variables, but that wasn’t the assignment,” she says, more irritation finding its way into her tone than she’s comfortable with. “Do it right next time.” 

He doesn’t argue with her any further, but she can feel his keen eyes watching her as she passes back the rest of the essays. He continues to watch her when she moves everyone to the training yard, and seems to take more interest in her than the lance instruction she attempts to give him. 

So she takes advantage of that fact, feinting with the jab of her lance, then sweeping low. She knocks his legs out from under him and he lands in the dirt, the tip of the blunted lance poised at his throat.

“Wow, Teach,” he says with a groan, rubbing his backside. “You really know how to sweep a guy off his feet.” 

“One of my many charms,” she answers dryly, pulling the lance away and offering her hand instead. “You left yourself wide open, Claude. Focus on what’s in front of you. It’s just as important as thinking three steps ahead.” 

“Oh I am focused on what’s in front of me.” 

Over time, she’s gotten used to his casually flirtatious remarks. They rattled her at first, which was likely the intent. Now her lips twitch into the slightest smirk, until she realizes that look in his eyes isn’t one of mirth. 

He dusts himself off and shoulders his own lance, giving her an inquisitive look. “So what’s going on with you?” 

“I’m trying to keep you from getting yourself killed, that’s what’s going on with me.” 

She knows what he means. She’s had a short fuse today, which isn’t her normal state. Part of the reason she gets along so well with the Golden Deer is because she’s usually patient and understanding of what they need. 

Today… not so much.

“”Uh-huh. No offense, but you look like you’re seconds away from stabbing me with that lance,” he nods toward the blunted weapon, a glimmer in his eyes. “So?” 

Byleth sighs and looks over at the other students. They’ve been suffering because of her bad mood all afternoon. Maybe she _does_ need to talk to someone, if only to keep herself from lashing out. She can’t exactly complain about Seteth to her father--he’d look at her like she’s crazy. But Claude is trustworthy, and maybe he’ll have a solution.

Hopefully one that doesn’t involve slipping some concoction into the man’s tea, though seeing Seteth turn as green as his hair during a faculty meeting might be mildly amusing.

“We’ll call it there for the day,” Byleth announces to her students. “Good work, everyone.” 

As the others shuffle off, she motions for Claude to follow her to the weapon racks. She takes her time wiping down and returning each weapon, treating them with the respect they’re due, even if they’re just for training. To his credit, Claude lends a hand, though she has to stop herself from giving the weapons he handles another pass. 

When the last weapon is put up, she just comes out with it. “Seteth is driving me crazy.”

“Huh. See, I guessed ‘guy troubles,’ but I didn’t guess that guy.” He rocks back on his heels and looks at her, hand cradling his chin. “I can see it, though.” 

“No, not--” A blush rises unbidden in her cheeks. _Why_ is she blushing? Over _Seteth_? “Trust me, the issues I have with Seteth aren’t romantic ones.” 

“Says you.” Claude grins at her like a cat with a mouthful of bright yellow feathers.

“Okay.” Byleth just sweeps right over his teasing, not wanting to indulge him. “Anyway. He’s just been… hyper-critical is a nice way of putting it. He picks apart everything I do like he’s my father trying to teach me a lesson. Only my father was never this bad.” 

“Teach, he’s like that with everyone. Though… yeah, I guess you get the brunt of it these days, huh? Wonder why.” 

“He’s told me to my face he doesn’t trust me, and I don't really blame him.” She shrugs, moving to take a seat against the wall. “I came out of nowhere. My only qualifications are that my father used to be a Knight of Seiros and I can handle myself in a fight. For all he knows, I’m here to overthrow Garreg Mach and the church from the inside.” 

“Are you?” Claude settles beside her, one knee drawn up to his chest. “Because I gotta say, I’m here for it.” 

Byleth rolls her eyes. “Alright, you little heretic. Be careful saying that around here. _I_ know you’re joking, but others might not.” 

He’s silent for a moment, a far-off look in his eyes. The same look he gets when he’s planning some elaborate scheme. 

“The way I see it, there are two routes to proceed: One, you can prove your worth. Something Seteth may never even acknowledge, and something that honestly seems like a lot of work for very little reward.” 

“And not what I signed up to do here,” Byleth mutters under her breath.

“Or you can make it your mission to get under his skin as much as he gets under yours.” 

She scoffs at that. “He doesn’t get under my skin.” 

Claude’s answering eyebrow raise is impressive. “Teach.” 

Okay. So maybe he does get under her skin. Just a little. She wishes that wasn’t the case. Her father’s always said she can be so stoic, to the point where he can never tell what she’s feeling. But for some reason Seteth brings out the absolute worst in her, and in doing so makes her something she doesn’t want to be.

A vindictive schemer who’s absolutely going to go along with whatever plan Claude cooks up. 

“What did you have in mind?” she asks, part of her afraid to hear it. “And if you say anything about stomach pains, I swear, Claude…” 

“Hey, I have way more than stomach pains in my repertoire.” He flashes her a charming grin, and Byleth can see why he gets such positive attention from women and men alike. “Nah, it’s nothing like that. You just need to find out what gets to him.”

“I’m pretty sure everything about me gets to him.” 

“Maybe, but there has to be one thing that _really_ bothers him. One thing he won’t be able to stop thinking about. Find out what that is, and you’re golden.” Claude gives her a wink. “At the very least, he’ll call you into his office less. And maybe you can even use it as a teaching moment. Basic respect and all that.” 

Somehow she doubts she’s going to get very far teaching Seteth about basic respect, but it’s better than what she’s been doing. Which is nothing. 

“Any suggestions?” 

“Just give him what he wants,” Claude says, straightening out his legs, his back pressing against the wall. “Arrange a meeting with him to discuss your performance, then use it as a testing ground.”

Byleth sighs, her head resting against the wall as she looks up at the ceiling. “I don’t even know what I’d test.” 

“The usual stuff. Cut him off, talk over him, do something annoying with your hands, pace his office. Use your imagination, Teach.” There’s a spark of mischief in his eyes that makes her wary. “And if that doesn’t work, there’s always seduction.” 

She bursts out laughing at that, unable to contain her amusement. “Right. Good one.” 

The idea of someone as composed and duty-focused as Seteth ever giving in to seduction is probably the most ridiculous thing she’s ever heard. _Especially_ if she’s the one doing the seducing. Not that she wants to be. He’d probably just criticize her technique there, too. 

Claude gives her knee a pat before pushing himself to his feet. “I’m sure you’ll figure it out. I’d ask you to let me know how it goes, but I’m pretty sure I’ll get an answer to that either way.” 

A bit of guilt strikes through her at that comment. She really has been terrible to her students. In that way, Seteth’s exactly right: She needs to be better than this. While it’s probably not the most mature way to proceed, if they can eventually get to an honest conversation--and if she can make him feel even a tenth of the agitation she feels because of him--then it’ll be worth it.


	2. The Dormant Dragon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I assume anyone reading a Setleth fic is aware there will be spoilers about Seteth, Flayn, Rhea, etc. But just in case, those are definitely in here. All casually mentioned since this chapter is Seteth's POV.
> 
> Also I already have to bump this up to M just to be safe lol. And in case it wasn't clear, in addition to an enemies to lovers vibe, this one is also going to go the "it's just physical, I don't feel anything... oh, wait. Dammit. I feel something" route. So if that's your jam, welcome aboard!

Seteth sits at his desk, pen in hand, attempting to focus on this month’s requisition orders. 

It shouldn’t be a difficult feat, but as he scans through the columns, his eyes glaze over for the third time in just a few minutes. Numbers have never been his strength to begin with. He prefers the use of words, as there is something empowering about them that he cannot so easily find in such tedious accounting. Perhaps his preference is an excuse, though, because the words he thinks about are from the Academy’s newest professor. 

_What else am I supposed to do when you’re constantly attacking me?_

Preposterous words. He’d never once _attacked_ her. How very dramatic. She is a professor at this institution, and an adult--though a very young one. She should be capable of accepting a bit of criticism. The fact that she responded so negatively does little to support Lady Rhea’s confidence in her.

Then again, Seteth is rather certain Lady Rhea has a plan he is not privileged to know. It stings somewhat, considering how long they have been friends. But he is ever her ally, and will remain as such until the day he dies. Even if he grows less and less confident in her wisdom. 

The decision to make Byleth a professor feels incredibly unfounded. She has no experience, and--far more alarming--she is an unknown quantity. Her father left Garreg Mach under dubious circumstances twenty years ago. For him to show up after all this time and happen to stumble into a job escorting the young lords back to the monastery… it is quite the coincidence, and Seteth does not believe in coincidences. 

Flayn would call it paranoia, but he has every right to be paranoid. Just because no one has hunted them for years does not mean they are safe. It certainly does not mean _she_ is safe. And while he trusts that Lady Rhea can defend herself--because if the Immaculate One cannot manage such a feat, what hope does he have--he would rather not test that theory. 

If Byleth is embroiled in some scheme to harm Lady Rhea or Flayn, though, she is a very good actress. From the start she seemed reluctant at best, and now only appears to maintain her position because of her students. Those haunting eyes of hers have hidden depths, to be sure, but Seteth does not believe true deception is part of them.

He is left then with the thought that he has perhaps been a bit too quick to judge. It is that thought that distracts him so, accompanied by her words and the sheer frustration behind them. He must hold her to the same standard as the other professors, but he certainly doesn’t call Manuela or Hanneman into his office to discuss the grades of the Blue Lions and Black Eagles students. 

_They are competent adults. She is…_

Seteth grits his teeth. Try as he might, he cannot bring himself to finish that sentence. She is young, yes, but that concept has long since lost any meaning to him. Every human who walks these halls is young, no matter their outward appearance. Byleth is no more a child than any one of them, and there is something _ancient_ about her. Something that exists far beyond her years. Something he knows he should recognize, but cannot.

That, perhaps, is the most vexing thing about the new professor. He knows her. He is positive of it. But he doesn’t know her half as well as he would like. The intriguing mystery behind her eyes. The deep and abiding loyalty she offers to her students. The passion that exists just beneath the surface, perhaps not even known to her, yet there all the same. Present in her features whenever she sees fit to argue with him, and perhaps that is why--

A loud snap echoes through Seteth’s office, and he looks down to find his pen broken in two. He hadn’t even realized he was holding it so tightly. With a sigh, Seteth scoops both pieces into his palm and prepares to dispose of them when there’s a knock at his door. 

Somehow he already knows who it is before she even announces herself. There are no coincidences, after all, and he deserves this particular brand of punishment. 

“Seteth? I wanted to speak to you, if you’re not busy.” 

“Not at all,” he answers. A bit too quickly. “Please, come in.” 

He stows the broken pen in a drawer and stands, smoothing down the non-existent wrinkles in his crisp robes. Byleth’s eyes catch his when she enters, and it takes a monumental effort not to look away. 

“What can I do for you, Professor?” 

Byleth’s long coat billows out behind her as she steps deeper into his office and shuts the door. A useless garment, in Seteth’s opinion. Even the sleeves are not performing their intended function, and the rest of it leaves absolutely nothing to the imagination. It certainly does little to obscure her very tight bodice that does not quite cover her torso, nor does it in any way disguise long, stocking-clad legs which would not be so prominently displayed were she wearing appropriate attire. 

He really should speak with her about that. If he finds it distracting--and Goddess help him, he does--then he can only imagine how her young students feel. 

“I wanted to apologize for the way I left things last time,” she says, her features strained as she speaks. “It was unprofessional of me, and I know I need to improve.” 

Byleth’s way of speaking is so dry and guarded that he genuinely cannot tell if she is remorseful or not. Perhaps of greater concern, though, is the fact that he should also apologize. He owes it to her, and he knows those are the words that should be coming out of his mouth.

Instead, he says, “Acknowledging and accepting such things is the first step to improvement.” 

He doesn’t miss the twitch in her jaw. There are times when he is certain she absolutely loathes him, and today is one of those days. Despite the fact that he has given her no reason to feel that way, some part of Seteth can almost understand. 

Resuming the seat at his desk, he expects her to occupy the usual chair. There is safety in such an arrangement, and if propriety cannot be maintained in his own mind, then he insists it be maintained in his office. 

But Byleth does not sit. She begins to pace the room, the motion stiff and awkward. He watches her curiously, that useless coat of hers lagging behind to show off the definition in her arms. The muscles there bunch and flex when she walks, and Seteth makes a great effort to tear his gaze away.

“I thought we could discuss my performance and the ways in which I can shore up my weaknesses.” She’s still pacing as she says it, and the action is so awkward it almost looks deliberate.

Perhaps she is merely nervous. He knows he can be intimidating to humans. Even if they do not know what he is, some part of them senses it. 

“I must admit I did not expect you to take such initiative, Professor. I am impressed.” 

She stops pacing, her fingers curling tight against her palm. Seteth watches as she draws in a measured breath, his heart rate quickening all the while. Were he a younger man, he might deliberately goad her just to see that spark that lights in her eyes when she turns back to him. 

_And what are you doing now, if not goading her?_

“As you’ve said before, I need to lead by example.” She gives him a forced smile, finally settling into a chair.

“I believe that is the best way to approach things, yes. Would you like--” 

“A performance review? By all means,” she says, her voice strained. “And don’t pull your punches, Seteth. I’m more resilient than I look.” 

He has never questioned her physical resilience. She is built for combat, her body sculpted for each precise movement. Whether or not she is built to withstand criticism remains to be seen, though. 

“I was going to suggest you tell me where it is you believe you are lacking, and we can discuss strategies for improvement. But if you prefer a more comprehensive performance review, we--” 

“That won’t be necessary.” 

It is the second time she’s interrupted him mid-sentence, and Seteth’s fingers flex against his desk, his nerves winding more tightly than they have a right to. Something about this entire situation is putting him on high alert, his senses heightened, a prickle creeping across his skin.

Byleth is certainly acting strange. She cracks her knuckles, the loud pop echoing through the quiet office. It is grating, yes, but also bewildering. She has never behaved this way in his presence before, nor has she been excessively quick to cut him off or inclined to pace like a caged animal. As Seteth watches, unable to hide his bemused expression, he sees her slouch in her chair, her knees falling apart. 

“Are you quite well, Professor?” His voice is more strained than he’s comfortable with, and he makes an effort not to look anywhere but at her eyes. “If you are feeling under the weather, I can escort you to the infirmary and we can continue this discussion later.” 

She mutters something under her breath that sounds like a curse and the name “Claude.” In an instant her demeanor changes, sliding easily back into something he recognizes. It’s a relief, yet at the same time, Seteth is still on edge and awaiting the worst. 

It comes--surprisingly enough--in the form of Byleth crossing one leg over the other. The position is more befitting a professional meeting, but her useless coat snags high along her hip and Seteth is treated to a full view of her stocking-clad leg. Not the usual floral pattern. This time there are tiny deer frolicking about her shapely leg. The thin material hugs the full, toned curve of her calf, and Seteth finds it rather difficult to breathe.

“I’m not ill,” she says, clearly perturbed. “Just following terrible advice.” 

He isn’t entirely sure she meant for him to hear the last statement. It is fortunate, then, that he is in no position to question it. It is likely that _he_ belongs in the infirmary, because a flush spreads across his skin that is difficult to ignore. It is such an absurd thing to fixate on, especially when he’s not thought of a woman in this way for many, many years. 

Perhaps that is why, though. Perhaps it's merely his base instincts craving something he cannot allow himself to have. Pushing him to imagine what that shapely form would feel like beneath his fingertips. She can scarcely stand to be in the same room with him, but if he was granted the privilege of touching her, he could play every inch of her like the finest instrument. Would those tantalizing eyes of hers reveal their mysteries to him then? Would she say his name with reverence and desire instead of barely-concealed disdain? Would she touch him in return, igniting something that has lain dormant for so very long? 

“...Seteth?” 

That is certainly not the way he wants her to say his name, but it snaps him back to the present moment. He realizes with no shortage of embarrassment that she was speaking to him, yet he heard nothing beyond the mention of advice from the young Riegan. 

_Calm yourself, you lecherous old beast. Nothing about this woman should interest you so._

He knows it to be a lie, and perhaps that is why he once again does not apologize as he should. Instead, he gives in to his idiocy and seals his fate. “Perhaps you do not wish a performance review, but while you are here, we must speak about your attire.” 

“My… attire?” Clear blue eyes meet his, the color of ocean waves crashing mercilessly against the cliff side. 

“It is entirely inappropriate, Professor. There is not a single part of your… uniform that cannot be considered excessively distracting, and that coat is a farce at best.”

“Are you honestly criticizing my appearance now? Is that where we’re going with this?” Her body is held rigid, her arms folded tightly across her chest as she stares daggers at him. 

“I am not criticizing your appearance, merely the choices you make in dressing for a professional setting. There are impressionable young adults throughout this Academy who spend far too much time on amorous pursuits as it is.” 

“And tell me, what _exactly_ does my outfit encourage?” There’s a warning in her voice, and Seteth would be wise to heed it.

He does not.

“It is as I have said: Your attire is distracting, and your students--” 

“My students barely notice what I’m wearing from day to day,” she counters.

“I find that difficult to believe.” There’s a roughened edge to his voice that betrays him, and he can tell from the slight widening of Byleth’s eyes that she notices.

“You seem to be the only one distracted by it, Seteth.” 

“I-I…” When was the last time he _stammered_? He clears his throat, fighting to regain control. 

Byleth stands then, brushing her coat out behind her. She gives a full turn, and Seteth’s blood runs hot through his veins, something inside of him eager to pounce. His fingers grip so harshly onto his knee that a shock of pain lances through him. 

“Go on, then. Do tell me which part of my clothing is the most distracting. I need specific instruction, you know. I _am_ new here.” 

Her words are thick with sarcasm, but Seteth can barely process anything beyond the tantalizing curve of her backside, the fabric pulled taut across her muscular form. If he doesn’t get control of himself, if he can’t curb these instincts, he’s going to act on them. There is no doubt in his mind. For all that he’s denied it, something about this woman calls to the creature that lurks deep within him, sparking a powerful sense of longing, the likes of which he has not felt in some time. 

The option he chooses is cruelty. He’s not unaware of how his words affect her, yet he says them anyway. “Cease this childish behavior, Professor. It is unbecoming.” 

“Childish be--” Her entire face is suffused with color. “Are you--” 

She cannot even seem to finish a sentence. Seteth can feel the tension in the air that is so very close to snapping. 

And Goddess help him, he wants to see that happen. At least it would offer some source of relief from this persistent state he finds himself in whenever Byleth is around.

She stands, and for a moment he thinks--_hopes_\--she is going to lean over his desk as she did a few days ago. There was something entirely too pleasing about looking up at her, seeing that fire and fury in her eyes. But this time, she keeps her distance.

“We’ll have this discussion later. I need some air, before…” 

His breath catches in his throat. Her _before_ is almost certainly not the same as his, yet he cannot help but wonder. She leaves without another word, though, and Seteth does not dare breathe until the door closes behind her.

The click of her heels announces her retreating form, something that should grant him peace. But that part of him that has slumbered for so long is still wide awake, craving something he should not want. He has his daughter to think about. Lady Rhea. All the students at the Academy.

Yet when he closes his eyes, all he sees is her, and everything inside of him aches to be unbound.


	3. The Meddling Songbird

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I couldn't not put Dorothea in this story. It's in my contract.

In the past six months, Byleth has experienced many moments where it felt like everything she knew was turned on its head. This one tops them all. 

Claude’s advice seemed to be a bust. Everything she did annoyed her far more than Seteth, and while she thought she’d seen his jaw twitch once, he’d made no true outward sign of being bothered by her behavior. Certainly not enough to justify making a complete fool of herself, and not in any way enough to get him to back off and give her some space from the constant criticism. 

Then she’d… well, she isn’t quite sure _what_ she did to get the reaction that followed, but she absolutely got one. Seteth has always very pointedly captured her gaze, his eyes piercing into her. But in that moment of her personal frustration, they’d strayed. She’d _felt_ him looking at her, his eyes roving over her body.

And she… didn’t hate it. Not at all. Even now, it feels like her skin is flushed from head to toe. An ice bath seems extremely necessary, which is absolutely absurd. It’s not as if men haven’t looked at her in the past. Far more openly and with far more lust in their eyes than him. But for some reason being the source of Seteth’s distraction is…

Byleth’s cheeks heat even more than the rest of her. To say that attention isn’t unwelcome feels like the saddest understatement imaginable. It's also an outright lie, when there’s some part of her that very badly wants to turn back around and goad him into acting on what she saw in his eyes. 

Hunger. She can’t possibly call it anything else. He looked at her like a man starved, and given his usual personality, maybe he is. 

She should be appalled. He’s a fair bit older than her, though she has no idea how old he actually is. More distressingly, he holds a position of power at the Academy. Perhaps not as significant as Rhea, but he could control her fate with ease. He could make demands on her that she…

Might very well consent to. Fire blazes across Byleth’s entire body and she ducks into the nearest empty room, not wanting anyone to see her like this. Because the truth is that she isn’t appalled. Far from it. She’s intrigued, and thinking things she really has no business thinking about such a man. 

Like how his beard might feel scraping against her inner thigh, or the feeling of his large hands gripping her, supporting her as he holds her up against the wall. Could she goad him into losing control? Would he be rough with her, or meticulously thorough? 

Byleth’s breath comes in quick, shallow bursts, an ache steadily growing within her. She’s no stranger to casual encounters. She was never shy about getting what she wanted from men who wanted her in return. But she always felt in control during those trysts. At least in control of herself, if not her partner. 

Right now, though…

_Ugh._

Byleth squeezes her eyes shut, hoping not to see what she knows is there. That groan has become familiar to her over the past six months. Normally she doesn’t mind it, but considering her current thoughts, Byleth wishes more than anything that she was the only one hearing them.

_I wish for that, too. Far, far more than you. Honestly, this is foolish._

She cracks one eye open and predictably finds Sothis floating nearby. 

_Now you’re going to go silent? You could have used some of that stoicism back there._ Sothis looks toward the door as if she can see straight through the walls to Seteth’s office. Maybe she can. _Your choice is a… curious one, though I will admit it’s better than you lusting after one of your students._

“It’s not my choice!” she grates out, far louder than she intends. “I didn’t choose anything about this.” 

_Maybe not, but you aren’t resistant, either._

Byleth turns away from her, as if that’s going to help matters any when Sothis knows her every thought. Even the most private ones. 

She expects to be further admonished. It _is_ foolish and inappropriate and such a terrible idea. She never should have taken Claude’s advice. She just needs to find ways to avoid Seteth for a while--at least until she can shake herself out of this madness she’s fallen under. She--

_Enough! How can one person say so little and think so much?_ Sothis scoffs. _Denying this side of yourself will not end well._

“You’re supposed to tell me not to do this,” Byleth’s words very nearly come out in a helpless whine. 

_I am not your conscience. Do as you will. If satisfying a more carnal need--_

“Please stop. I beg you.” 

_\--will make you more tolerable, then do so._

Would it make her more tolerable? In her current state, probably. Would it make Seteth more tolerable? Once he came to his senses, he would probably go on about how improper all of it is. She might strangle him afterward. 

That was if he would ever act on it in the first place. He won’t. He’s too straight-laced, too in control of his actions. 

_You are absolutely ridiculous. I’m going back to sleep._

Blessed silence follows that statement, and Byleth leans back against the cool stone wall. So many thoughts fill her restless mind, and every one of them only serves to exacerbate that insistent ache. 

“This was such a terrible idea,” she mutters.

No one answers.

*** 

Teaching her students is both a welcome distraction, and an ever-present struggle. It wouldn’t be so bad if Claude didn’t catch her eye every now and again and wink oh-so-knowingly at her. She feels her face heat each time he does it, and those memories return soon after, bringing with them all the desires she’s tried so hard to suppress.

She dreads the end of class, knowing Claude’s going to corner her. Sure enough, he stays behind as the others file out. Byleth shuffles papers at her desk, her fingers curling reflexively when he speaks.

“You haven’t bitten anyone’s head off today, but something’s up,” he muses. “My best guess is you succeeded, but not the way you planned to. Am I right?” 

She looks past him, to the very open classroom door. Cobbling together what’s left of her composure, Byleth strides across the room and closes it. For a brief moment she considers just leaving. Claude might be invested in this scheme, but if she makes that boundary clear, he won’t cross it.

The truth, though, is that she could use someone to talk to about this. Someone who isn’t constantly in her head.

“‘Succeeded’ is a strong word. He was as imperturbable as ever.” 

“Except…?” 

That little smirk gets under her skin almost as much as the disapproving brow furrow Seteth usually reserves for her. Almost, but not quite.

“Except…” Despite her best efforts, Byleth blushes. 

“Ah. Seduction.” A broad grin curves Claude’s lips. “See, I told you, Teach. Never fails.” 

“It wasn’t intentional!” 

It wasn’t, was it? She would know if she was trying to seduce someone. Especially if that someone was him. 

“Intentional or not, it worked. But you seem pretty flustered. He didn’t try something, did he?” 

There’s a protective note to Claude’s voice that would be heart-warming if it wasn’t so mortifying. Like some younger brother determined to protect her honor, when her mind has been occupied all day with thoughts of how much she wishes Seteth _had_ tried something. 

“No, he didn’t try anything,” she says. “I just… I didn’t expect that reaction. At best he’s always acted like I’m just some bothersome child to him.” 

As the words leave her mouth, Byleth realizes the benefit of talking to Claude rather than Sothis. Claude might be the smartest person at the Academy, but he can’t read her mind. If she keeps her wits about her, he’ll have no idea Seteth’s interest is something she welcomes. 

“He might be a prude, but he’s still a guy, Teach. And come on. You’re kind of a knockout.” He folds his arms behind his head and gives her another wink.

She rolls her eyes and tells herself it’s just because of the compliment. Certainly not because Seteth seems to be anything but a prude, considering the looks he gave her. “Undressing her with his eyes” feels like too mild a description of what happened in that room. 

“This is a little beyond my expertise, though. Shocking, I know.” He flashes her a grin. “Lucky for you, I know just who to consult.” 

“Claude, I don’t--” 

“You’ve got the answer, Teach. The thing that most gets under his skin is _you_. It’d be a waste not to use that, at least a little. I’m not talking about tormenting the guy, just teasing him. Distracting him to the point where it starts to affect his work. Once that happens, you talk to him about how he’s making you feel, and progress is made. Easy as that.” 

How he currently makes her feel is something she’s absolutely not going to discuss with Claude or any other outside help. She also isn’t going to share the images that came to mind at the thought of teasing and tormenting him. 

“Listen, I won’t bring anyone else in on this if you don’t want me to,” he says, his voice a touch softer than before, “but I really do think she could help.” 

Byleth sighs and drags a hand over her still-heated face. She has some inkling of who Claude has in mind. A recently-recruited student who seems to be a master at teasing men and women alike. 

Maybe she _does_ need the help. If she isn’t careful, this is going to turn into a major issue. She can feel it bubbling up just beneath the surface, so close to boiling over. And at this point, she’s already taken Claude’s advice. What could a little more hurt? 

“Fine. But this stays between the three of us, and we’re never going to talk about it unless I bring it up. Got it?” 

Claude’s eyes practically sparkle. “Got it.” 

*** 

The consultant her most clever and most meddlesome deer brings in is exactly who she expects. 

Byleth tells him to meet her in the dining hall after the meals are done for the day. It’s common for professors to bring their students there for extra tutoring, and it’s less embarrassing than entertaining such guests in her tiny room. 

She’s not at all surprised when Dorothea strolls up alongside Claude, looking absolutely overjoyed. He’s clearly told her something already, and Byleth lets out a soft groan before they reach the small table. Two other chairs are already pulled out, so she doesn’t bother acknowledging either of them as they sidle up beside her.

“Brought a pro for you, Teach. Best in the business.” 

“Flatterer,” Dorothea scolds, though the admonishment rings hollow. “Hi, Professor. I hear you’re having some troubles with a certain overbearing advisor.” 

She grits her teeth and draws a breath in through her nose, reminding herself none of this is Dorothea’s fault. She’s gotten herself into this predicament, and she should be grateful for the help.

“You know, I always thought of Seteth as so cold,” Dorothea continues as she pulls up a chair right next to Byleth, “but I guess some people are good at hiding their true selves.” 

She glances at the young woman, seeing her mask slip for just a moment. They’ve already had this discussion concerning the part Dorothea plays, and Byleth’s demeanor softens just a bit. She’s always considered herself to be fairly straightforward. There are no hidden depths to her. What others see is what they get. At least until Sothis woke up.

Now she understands the need to hide her true feelings, even if she has no idea what those feelings are.

Predictably, though, Dorothea covers for herself with her usual audacity. “I bet there’s something absolutely ferocious beneath that put-together exterior. Goodness, Professor. Now you’ve got me thinking about it.” 

She fans her face even as Byleth feels her own cheeks heat. “Dorothea…” 

“Come on, you promised me you wouldn’t needle her,” Claude says, flipping a chair around to straddle it.

“I promised no such thing!” 

“Huh. Yeah, guess I never got around to asking that. Oh well.” Claude grins in a way that makes it clear he never intended to ask in the first place.

“I’m ten seconds away from failing you both,” Byleth mutters. 

“Alright, Teach. We’ll be serious.” He makes what she guesses is his ‘serious’ face. “I already told Dorothea this is a delicate matter, and I trust her not to say anything to anyone else.” 

"I’m… all too aware of how quickly rumors can spread around here. Whatever is said at this table stays between the three of us.” 

Byleth searches the woman’s emerald eyes and finds a startling amount of sincerity there. She gives a single nod, effectively putting herself at the mercy of her two students. 

“So, you need to know how to push boundaries without inviting anything unwanted,” Dorothea begins, her posture straightening in her chair.

Is that what she wants? Technically, yes, but only because she has no idea what if anything is unwanted right now. If her traitorous body is to be believed, the answer is absolutely nothing. But it’s best not to tell that to Dorothea or Claude.

“Right.” 

“Though I suppose it’s not like Seteth would ever act on those impulses,” she muses aloud. “Too much self-control, and too much concern for what’s ‘proper.’” 

Back in his office, the tension between them thick enough to cut with her blade, Byleth had a hard time believing he wouldn’t act on those impulses. But maybe it was just wishful thinking on her part. Dorothea is probably right. The day Seteth ever does anything _improper_ is the day Byleth’s use of magic rivals Lysithea’s. It’s never going to happen.

The realization is both freeing and disappointing in equal measure. Byleth tries to push the latter aside and just focus on the fact that she can feel free to do whatever she likes to rattle him.

_Which is…?_

“So this is getting a _little_ personal, Professor. Cover your ears, Claude.” He instead makes the antler sign right by his ears. Dorothea sighs, but continues. “What did he fixate on? I’ve found most men have a preference.” 

Another wave of heat suffuses her cheeks. She expected this conversation to be uncomfortable, but somehow she never expected it would be like this. 

“I’m… not sure,” she admits. “To be honest, I was too surprised that he noticed me at all to really assess his… interest.” 

_Goddess, kill me now._

“Hmm.” Dorothea leans back in her chair and gives her a once-over that Seteth would absolutely describe as improper. “Can I give an honest appraisal?” 

“I--” 

“I’m a little biased, but I’d say you’re pretty much the complete package as-is. You have such a nice figure, Professor. I’m honestly jealous.”

Byleth suddenly wonders if it’s possible to disappear into the earth. Perhaps if she sinks low enough in her chair…

“My advice? Lose the coat, wear a bodice that’s cut just a bit lower, and I think you’re set. Oh! And keep up the stocking rotation. That’s sure to draw interest.” 

She blinks at the woman, then glances over at Claude, who just grins. “I didn’t think anyone had noticed that.” 

“Are you kidding? They’re so cute. The deer ones especially.” 

Since starting at the Academy, she’s bought five different pairs of stockings, all embroidered with different designs. Maybe it’s worth buying a few more, just in case. Come to think of it, his gaze _was_ fixed on her legs when she first noticed his attention…

“That’s attire, then,” Byleth says, reining in her own thoughts. “He already commented on my outfit being distracting, so I’m sure this will help. But should I be… doing anything…?” 

“Just be your usual charming self, Teach.” 

“Oh, Claude. Well-meant words from a man who doesn’t have to try,” Dorothea says, patting his arm. “The rest of us need to put in a little effort. Tell me, Professor. When was the last time you seduced someone?” 

Byleth blinks owlishly at her. “I… don’t know that I have. This is more information than anyone needs to know about me, but I… can’t say I’ve had to try that hard, either.” 

When she wanted companionship for the night, she always found it. Another mercenary, a traveling soldier, a blacksmith’s son. One smile, a bit of talking over drinks, and that was all it ever took. 

Dorothea sighs. “No, of course you haven’t. Well, you’ll have to try with this one. Which means it looks like I get to teach you something for once.” 

The former Black Eagles student spends the next half hour teaching her subtle ways to… accentuate her best features. Claude thankfully excuses himself with the reasoning that it’s no fun to know all of the magician’s tricks, and Byleth is left to wonder if she should be taking notes as Dorothea demonstrates. 

It all seems as ridiculous as Claude’s advice, and she imagines it’ll feel much the same should she put it to use. But it’s clear her student is excited and eager to help, and Byleth doesn’t have the heart to tell her she’s probably not going to be very good at half of these things. 

Maybe, though. Maybe it’ll be as simple as Dorothea proclaims, and she can make it impossible for Seteth to keep his composure when she next sees him. She’s convinced now that he won’t do anything about it, no matter what, but maybe she can secret such an encounter away in her mind and change the ending of it when she’s alone. 

That way no one else will ever have to know how much she wants him to lose that tight grip he has on his control.


	4. The Imperfect Saint

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I want to thank @Auron_Kale here on ao3 for an excellent idea I'm going to be using next chapter. It would've gone into this one, but I wanted something to bridge chapter 3 and what I have in mind next so that Byleth gets a chance to use what she's learned. And to sneak in another Seteth POV chapter.

Seteth has always worked late, but in the past it has been out of a sense of duty and obligation. Since his last meeting with Byleth, though, he’s worked late for an entirely different reason.

If left to his own devices, his mind is quick to wander. He constructs a narrative in which Byleth did not leave his office in a rush. A narrative in which he cast propriety aside in favor of raw, instinctive need. In that version of events, he became intimately familiar with the feeling of her luscious body pinned between him and the wall. The taste of her skin, the sound of her breathless gasps, the shock of pain from her nails digging into his back.

It’s both a blessing and a curse that he’s been alone in his chambers when such thoughts assault his consciousness. He would not want anyone to see him in such a state, yet being alone impacts his willpower in the most debilitating way. Seteth is abashed to admit he has taken himself in hand to such imaginings. Fingers and palm working in tandem, moving furiously over the length of his aching cock, seeking relief from the repressed feelings that become more and more insistent each day. 

And while it’s satisfying in the moment, it’s never true relief. Never enough to chase away the thought that what he truly needs is her and her alone. 

It’s such a maddening predicament. For centuries he’s been alone, content to focus his attention on more important pursuits. Since his wife’s death, the interest he’s taken in women has been mild and fleeting. Something he could overcome with enough determination. 

At first, the same was true of Byleth. But as the months have passed, his interest in her has become entirely unprofessional. Inexplicably so. At least… that is what he tells himself. There’s nothing special about this woman. Certainly nothing worth upsetting his carefully maintained existence. 

Never mind the fact that she is the first woman since his wife to do exactly that.

But so long as he does not retire until he’s exhausted, he can avoid such thoughts and the… actions those thoughts precipitate. For that reason, he has spent the last several nights locked away in his office until all hours of the night, leaving only to take dinner with Flayn before returning and burying himself in paperwork. 

It is not an elegant solution, but it is a solution nonetheless. 

And perhaps it would have remained a solution had the source of his endless frustration not decided to pay him a visit. 

She arrives a few hours after the evening meal has concluded. A time most professors spend grading papers or engaging in a hobby outside of their teaching. Byleth’s hobby is evidently vexing him--an unfair assessment, he knows, but it certainly feels that way. 

“I was hoping we could continue our discussion,” she explains after he permits her entry. 

For several moments he forgets how to breathe, so many thoughts rushing to the forefront of his mind. “I’m afraid I am very busy tonight. Perhaps we can schedule a time tomorrow?” 

He keeps his voice level. Pleasant. Even if it is a farce to believe this will be any easier to navigate tomorrow. 

“The sooner we can come to some kind of compromise, the sooner we can both move on.” The words are a touch strained, and he looks up from his papers to see her shedding her coat. 

The garment does next to nothing, but seeing her without it reveals just how much work that flimsy piece of cloth was actually doing. Her upper arms are bare, revealing the lean muscle of a trained swordmaster. The collar she normally wears is gone, giving him a view of the defined ridges of her collarbones, perfect for tracing with his fingers or tongue. And her bodice…

He swears it’s cut lower than before. In fact, he is sure of it. The view of her breasts is not as flagrantly obscene as Manuela’s, but it’s more than enough for the stirrings of lust to blaze through his body. 

_Control yourself._

“I want an honest appraisal,” she says, her voice sounding just a touch huskier than it was moments before. Likely a trick of his imagination.

“My honest appraisal is that this is even more indecent,” he says, trying in vain to go back to his work despite every one of his senses being tuned to her. 

He hears her move closer, bypassing the chair. It is not his intention to look at her--not even a glance--yet he finds himself doing it anyway. Long enough to catch the slide of her tongue over her bottom lip. Just the briefest motion, likely innocent and meaningless, but Goddess help him, the things he imagines in that moment…

Seteth closes his eyes and draws in a long breath through his nose. He must be stronger than this. She is just trying to get under his skin; push boundaries for the sake of rattling him. She cannot possibly understand what she’s doing. 

“Tell me what exactly is indecent about it. My attire thus far hasn’t bothered anyone else, and Manuela--” 

“Put your coat back on.” It comes out as half a plea and half a demand. He isn’t sure which he needs her to hear more.

“Are you distracted again?” she asks with a wide-eyed innocence that contrasts so sharply with her tone.

And no, he certainly did not mistake that husky edge to her voice. It caresses every part of him, stoking a fire the refuses to cease.

“I do have eyes, Professor.” He meets her gaze then, and he swears he hears her make the slightest intake of breath. 

No doubt she can see what he is trying so hard to conceal. That ravenous beast that dwells deep inside of him. He might not be able to take its form any longer, but that doesn’t mean there aren’t echoes of it coursing through his blood. Echoes that drown out all good sense whenever she’s around. 

Her palms rest on his desk and she leans over it. It’s something she has done in the past, but with her bodice cut in such a revealing fashion, he’s treated to a glimpse of full, round breasts when she does so this time. Seteth lets out a shuddering breath that’s punctuated by a loud snap. 

Another pen broken. 

A note of surprise registers in her eyes, followed swiftly by what he swears is pleasure. The subtle curve of her mouth supports that theory, and both lend further credence to the idea that she is just trying to agitate him. 

“Then answer me. How am I supposed to change anything if you don’t give me direct criticism?” 

The last thing he should do is indulge her, but there is something in her eyes that makes him lose what’s left of his sense. 

“That bodice is cut far too low,” he says, his own voice dropping an octave. “You should also be wearing a coat. Or better yet, robes. The shorts barely cover anything at all, and the stockings…” 

As he makes his list, his gaze roves slowly over her body. He swears he sees her shiver, but is convinced he imagined it as he takes in the aforementioned stockings. There are no frolicking deer today, nor is there a tasteful floral pattern. Today her tight, sheer stockings are embroidered with…

Dragons. 

Seteth draws in a sharp breath, his nostrils flaring as he looks up at her. She cannot possibly know. He’s been careful this time. He’s made certain to hide who and what he is, for Flayn’s benefit if nothing else. She--

No. She does not see him. All she sees is a man too tightly-wound who she believes she can best. And perhaps she is right about that, but this spectacle has gone on for far too long. 

Grounded by the fear of discovery, Seteth rises from his desk. He subtly adjusts his robes to hide his body’s lingering interest and walks toward the door. 

“I have given my feedback. Please address the issue as soon as possible. Once you do, we may speak again," he says curtly. "Until then, I have a great deal of work to finish.” 

He can feel her move, but he’s unprepared for the scalding warmth of her hand on his, stopping him from opening the door. She is so close he can smell the hint of ginger from the tea she favors. So close he can feel heat radiating from her body. 

His breathing grows labored, but he doesn’t look at her. To look at her is to give in, because the instant he does, he will follow the impulse to forcibly pin her against the wall and claim her mouth with his own.

There is only one way to end this now. He must be cruel again, and strike at her insecurities. “You are acting like a--” 

“Child? That’s funny. Lately you haven’t been looking at me as if I’m a child,” she counters, her voice wavering just slightly.

Her hand moves from his, which is both a noticeable relief and a tortuous punishment. It veers even further into the latter when she steps between him and the door, filling what little space exists there, forcing him to look into her eyes as she speaks.

“I think you like when I challenge you. I think I’m the only person here who does, and some part of you craves it.”

She has no idea how right she is; how much he craves it. Craves her. And if he cannot get her out of this office, she will soon know the truth. 

Seteth holds her gaze as he speaks, making certain she understands. “You are playing a dangerous game, Byleth.” 

Her gasp is impossible to miss this time--her chest expands with it, so close to his own. He has never used her name before, and he has no doubt that is what she is responding to. But as her eyes darken, he begins to think that might not be _all_ she’s responding to.

There is no world in which she could want this--want _him_\--and yet…

“You say that, but I don’t think you mean it. I don’t think you’ll ever act on it. You--” 

He should not rise to the bait like some prideful juvenile, and yet he does exactly that. His palm presses to the door, his arm braced beside her as he leans in to take what he has wanted for so long. He can already taste her lips, imagine them soft and pliant against his own.

But before he can fully close the distance, a knock sounds at his door, vibrating through his own hand. “Brother? Lady Rhea said you were working late again. I brought tea.” 

Ice courses through his veins, along with a healthy dose of shame. He is scant inches away from Byleth, her breath warm against his lips. Her eyes are half-lidded, a shocking amount of desire in them he must be imagining. 

Even if he is not…

“Just a moment, Flayn.” His voice is strained, his throat constricting around the words. 

Even if he is not imagining it, it cannot be acted upon. 

Byleth lets out a puff of breath and moves from the door as he pulls back. She swallows hard and collects her coat, then gives him one last, lingering look that seems to be an apology tinged with a note of longing. 

He forcibly ignores the last and just nods, returning to the solace of his desk. Silently praying that the Goddess grant him the strength to do a better job of controlling himself in the future.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm going to start getting hate mail for this unresolved sexual tension, lmao. I'll do my best to get chapter 5 out tomorrow, and I promise it'll be worth the wait.


	5. The Brazen Professor

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, so I couldn't focus on anything else today until I wrote this. I blame all of you and the insane response this fic is getting. (Seriously though, thank you. <3 All the comments make my day. I love reading them.) 
> 
> Once again, credit to @Auron_Kale for the idea behind this chapter. It was inspiring, to say the least.

Byleth leaves his office in more of a daze than last time, somehow managing to greet Flayn with a smile and some nonsense excuse for her presence before she rounds the corner and lets out the breath she’s been holding. 

Her entire body tingles with anticipation, even if she knows damn well that anticipation isn’t going to amount to anything tonight. If she didn’t have proof of it in the fire coursing through her veins and the insistent ache between her thighs, she’d never believe he’d been about to kiss her. 

Even now, as she walks blindly to her room, Byleth finds space to question it. She let herself believe Dorothea’s assumption because it was easier. Because her overwrought nerves couldn’t handle thinking about the alternative. Now that alternative is very much a reality, and she can’t help but wonder why.

Why her? She’s never inspired something quite like this in another person. Certainly not a person who’s normally as put-together as Seteth. And it makes her feel… bold, in a way she shouldn’t be. Empowered and perhaps even a little reckless. 

He wants her. The reason doesn’t matter. He wants her, and now she has to decide if she wants him enough to push this to its inevitable conclusion. It truly is in her hands, because she knows if it's left up to Seteth, he'll regress into a state of denial and restraint. 

Byleth makes it to her room and half expects to see Sothis in her usual spot. But her constant companion is either sleeping or granting her a reprieve to work out these things on her own. She’s torn between feeling thankful for that and a touch resentful. It would be nice to have someone who isn’t Claude or Dorothea to discuss this with. Then again, Sothis would probably spend the entire time talking about how distracting her _carnal needs_ are. 

Shedding her coat for the second time tonight, Byleth changes almost mechanically into her sleep attire, already knowing there won’t be much sleep happening tonight. Her body is still vibrating with desire, and there’s only one solution she has direct control over. She locks the door--just in case--then gives her small bed a disappointed glance before heading over. 

It’s not her furniture’s fault she isn’t spending tonight bent over a certain someone’s desk. It does feel like a consolation prize, though, as she settles onto the mattress and stares up at the ceiling. If this is all she can have, though, she’s going to fantasize to her heart’s content. Imagine not just what could be, but what she wants specifically.

Which is a more difficult task than she’s imagined, because she wants so much. She starts with the moment Flayn interrupted, though. She imagines him closing that distance, his mouth hot and demanding against hers. What would he taste like? He prefers spiced teas, so perhaps a bit of that. She can taste the flavor on her tongue as his sweeps into her mouth, both of his hands braced against the wall and frustratingly not touching her. 

She doesn’t practice the same restraint, of course. As her eyes close, Byleth considers what it would feel like to run her hands over his body. It’s her fantasy, so the clothing present in that moment magically disappears, and she can almost feels the compact planes of muscle beneath her palms. Warm skin, perhaps the scratch of hair on his chest, tapering neatly down to his waist. That lovely, tantalizing cut where his hips lead into his torso. 

In her mind, she reaches down between them, hoping to tempt him into touching her. She doesn’t reach her destination before he pins her arms over her head, murmuring something about how impatient she is. She’s left at his mercy as his lips blaze a scalding trail down her neck, his teeth scraping over her collarbone before he continues downward. 

Byleth shivers, her own hand tracing the same path. It’s impractical to imagine everything she wants pressed against that door in his office, so as her fingers reach her breast, she paints a scene in his chambers, with her not merely restrained by his arm, but tied to his bed, helpless to do anything but writhe and moan as he takes what he wants from her. 

She’s never in her life desired such things. That loss of control should terrify her, but the idea of giving that control to Seteth is unbelievably appealing. By the time her fingers slip beneath her undergarments, she’s soaking wet. Perhaps it’s just the fantasy. Perhaps she wouldn’t enjoy it in practice. 

But for now, the idea only builds upon her desire as she imagines long fingers--elegant but calloused--stroking her, intentionally ignoring her clit as she does now. She imagines him nipping and sucking at sensitive flesh as he makes his way to her inner thigh, his beard rough against her in the most delicious way. The first time this conjured version of Seteth drags his tongue across her, she bucks against her hand, a whimper falling from her lips. She wants to savor this, hold on to these images for as long as possible, but he’s right: She _is_ impatient. She needs this so badly that her sense of restraint and tolerance for teasing is non-existent. 

So she focuses on what will give her the most direct satisfaction, two fingers rubbing her almost too-sensitive clit. Jolts of pleasure fire through her as she imagines it’s his fingers, his tongue, the head of his cock rubbing against her deliberately before he drives into her. It’s the last that finally breaks her and she cries out, her muscles clenching, pleasure rolling over her in forceful waves. 

She expects some relief, and for a few moments, she has it. Her body feels limbless, sinking into the mattress as little spasms continue to exert their will. But as she comes down from such a high, she’s met with the frustrating realization that even this is not enough. She still aches, still yearns, and she knows instinctively that there’s only one way she’s going to overcome this all-consuming desire. 

But seeking him out tonight is sheer lunacy. If she goes to his quarters, he’ll likely turn her away, and the idea of being so thoroughly rejected by him now… something clenches inside of her that has nothing to do with lust. She isn’t sure she can handle such a rejection, but examining those thoughts feels dangerous. 

She does try to sleep after washing up. It seems the safest option, but also laughably out of reach. For an hour, sleep doesn’t come, and Byleth swings her legs over the side of the bed with a frustrated growl. She sits there for a time, feeling the cold stone beneath her feet before she makes a decision. 

While she's never been prone to _moods_, sparring has always helped her clear her mind. She’s not likely to find a partner for it at this hour, but that’s probably for the best. No one else needs to be subjected to her reckless fury. It’ll be a wonder if Cyril doesn’t find the training dummies decapitated in the morning. 

Byleth dresses in simple attire--a tunic and shorts, the stockings left behind and her usual shoes replaced by calf-high boots. If anyone wants to mark her for _indecent attire_, then so be it. And if that person is Seteth…

A smirk tugs at her lips as she makes her way to the training facilities. Oh, wouldn’t that be something. She has to force away thoughts of just what that something might be, lest her mind regress back to its lustful state. A fortunate measure, since she’s able to notice the sounds of someone else training. 

Masculine grunts and yells punctuate the strike of a heavy weapon against the practice dummies. The sounds are familiar, but Byleth tells herself it’s just wishful thinking. As she carefully opens the large doors to the facility, though, she finds that her wish has absolutely been granted. 

Seteth is there, and while she’s imagined with some amusement that he trains in those modest robes of his, that isn’t the case at all. He wears a loose tunic and breeches now, a pair of sturdy boots completing what might be the most riveting outfit Byleth has ever seen. There’s nothing special about the clothing, but the way it clings to his body as he moves makes it hard to catch her breath. 

Even better than that, his arms are mostly bared and she can see the muscles she’s always suspected he had. No one can swing an axe with any frequency and not have a well-defined upper body. 

As she watches, unnoticed thus far, Seteth strikes at the dummy not with grace or tactical purpose, but raw aggression. The iron axe he wields is blunted, but its swung with such force that it still takes a chunk out of the burlap stand-in. It’s something she only notices briefly, though, because her attention is drawn to the way the muscles in his back bunch together, the tension in his arms as he pulls the axe back, and the release of that tension as he swings again. 

Meanwhile, the tension within _her_ builds to dangerous levels again. Especially when she considers that he might be out here in the dead of night for the same reason she is. 

“I think you’ve managed to rout them all,” she comments, her voice shaking. 

His body goes rigid, the axe stopped mid-swing. When he turns to face her, Byleth draws in a sharp breath at the sight of his flushed face and sweat-dampened hair that looks so much more unkempt than his usual style. It’s not hard to imagine other ways in which he might achieve such a look. 

“My apologies, Professor.” He sounds winded, his voice strained. It’s likely just from such rigorous movements. “I often like to train at late hours. It helps to clear my mind.” 

That was her reasoning, as well, but now she finds her mind is anything but clear. All she can think about is the fact that Dorothea is right. There is something ferocious lurking beneath his cool exterior. Something she would very much like to set loose. 

He reaches for a towel, his face momentarily hidden from her as he wipes away the sweat. After scrubbing the towel over his hair, the resulting look is complete chaos. There’s something undeniably charming about it, and Byleth bites her lip to keep from smiling. 

“I assume you wish to use the facilities,” he says, his voice more tightly-controlled now. “I will leave you to your training.” 

“I’d prefer a flesh and blood opponent,” she says quickly, stopping him in his tracks as he heads for the exit. “Easier to feel like I’m accomplishing something. And from the looks of it, you could use that, too.” 

She sees a flash of something in his eyes. Acknowledgment, perhaps, of the fact that she is continuing with the “dangerous game” she was playing earlier. Somehow it’s become less of a game and more a necessary strategy to get what she wants. What they both clearly want. 

His adam’s apple bobs as he swallows, but he doesn’t look away from her. “Very well. Shall I switch to a sword?” 

Unrestrained excitement courses through her veins, filling her with a potent dose of adrenaline as she makes her way to the weapon racks. “Keep your axe. I could use the practice.” 

“I warn you, I will not go easy on you just because you are inexperienced.” 

The slightest smirk tips her mouth as she tests out the weight of the training axe in her hands. “I should hope not. And I’m not nearly as inexperienced as you think.” 

_Always try to give your words a double meaning whenever you can._ It was one of the things Dorothea advised her to do. Considering her teaching worked surprisingly well in Seteth’s office, employing it now feels justified. 

It seems to work here, too. There’s fire in his eyes as he meets her gaze, and another shiver overcomes her as she settles into a more appropriate stance for fighting. 

“Are you ready?” he asks, hefting his own axe in both hands. 

_More than you know._

She nods and draws in a breath, centering herself; putting her training to use so she can predict what he intends to do. 

True to his word, he doesn’t hold back, even from the beginning. He charges her, teeth gritted, and cleaves his axe downward in a strong arc. Byleth blocks it with the haft of her own weapon, but the power and control behind his movements is as punishing as it is captivating. It takes her dodging backwards to avoid the next blow, and he still doesn’t relent, pursuing her tirelessly. 

Byleth’s blood pumps with the excitement of it all. This she understands, far more than any other form of seduction. There’s something absolutely sinful about his ruthless assault and the way their weapons crash together time and time again. Even when they’re forced apart, it’s only a matter of time before they meet once more, the explosive clash of iron and wills feeling inevitable. 

At one point she manages to graze him, her axe bruising across the exposed skin of his arm. The look he gives her afterward is practically feral, and she idly wonders if he might actually do her physical harm. She wonders if she even cares, as she’s put on the defensive again. 

He does manage to hit her with the broad head of his axe at one point. The motion is purposeful and controlled as he forces her away. And though her side will probably show a lovely bruise tomorrow, right now, she can barely feel it. Adrenaline pounds through her veins, everything in her tuned to the fight.

She learns from him, even if he isn’t directly teaching. Learns the leg he favors to lead with, the subtle tells he exhibits right before he strikes. It’s enough for her to properly dodge and counterattack, and his breathless chuckle tells her he’s noticed. 

Byleth grins, feeling a bit feral herself. The look must disarm him, because she’s able to pull off a move he never would have allowed otherwise. She swings low, cutting his legs out from under him in a powerful sweep. Before his back even hits the hard ground, she follows him down. It’s not enough to stand over him in her triumph. Something compels her to sink to her knees, straddling his legs as she levels her axe at his throat. 

“Do you yield?” 

His chest heaves with the effort of his labored breathing and something sparks in his eyes. Just the barest hint of gold she’s sure she imagines. It’s impossible for Byleth to hold her breath, but her entire body is held taut as a bow string as she waits for his response. 

It comes in a burst of power as, in one fluid motion, Seteth knocks away her axe, pushes her backward, and reverses their position with ease. Her back hits the ground, the wind knocked out of her before she’s even fully aware of what’s happening. She can’t help the clench of her thighs as she looks up at him, his axe poised at her throat, his body so close to hers. 

“Do you?” 

“Yes,” she breathes, everything in her wanting him to make good on what she sees in his eyes.

His mouth crashes to hers with the same aggressive fury she’s seen from their sparring. The force of his kiss is bruising, the sound Byleth makes in the back of her throat needy and full of raw desire. She buries one of her hands in his hair, the other gripping his shoulder as her legs wrap around him, drawing him closer against her. 

She can still feel the edge of his axe pressing against her neck, but it doesn’t matter. The weapon could be properly honed and she wouldn’t care right now. Nothing else in the world matters beyond his mouth and body on hers. 

He tastes just like she imagined, though there’s a subtle note of smoke that joins the spice, and Byleth knows she’s going to crave it from this moment forward. She savors it now, savors the passion that ignites between them as she kisses him back. Her legs wrap more tightly around him, her thighs flexing as she lifts herself off the ground. She can feel the ridge of his cock through his breeches and she rolls her hips, desperate to find relief from the ache that’s built inside her. 

The sound he makes in response can only be called a growl. It rumbles in the back of his throat, vibrating through her, electrifying every nerve ending. 

She needs more of this, more of him, but just as she thinks it, he pulls away. First it’s only his mouth leaving hers, then he extracts himself from her embrace. Byleth reels from the sudden shock of cool air against her blazing hot skin, too disoriented to reach for him again as he drops his axe beside her and leans to the side so he’s no longer above her. 

“I… I apologize. I do not know what came over me.” 

Those are quite possibly the most frustrating words he could say to her right now. She gives him a baleful glance that’s half incredulous as she tries to catch her breath, yet still he continues. 

“I fully understand if you wish to report this to Lady Rhea. I should not have taken advantage--” 

She’s absolutely not going to let him finish _that_ thought. Especially when it strips her of all agency in this little encounter of theirs. It would likely be enough to tell him so, but Byleth isn’t content with that. 

Instead she grabs him by the collar and yanks him back down to her, kissing him fiercely. He doesn’t resist. Not even remotely. His arms come around her, fingers bunching in her tunic as he responds with the same ravenous need she felt from him earlier. 

“If you think I don’t want this,” she breathes against his lips, “you are the most unobservant man I’ve ever met.” 

“Byleth…” 

A shudder courses through her, her body instantly responding to the roughened sound of his voice as he says her name. She can’t help kissing him again, her hands moving over the body he’s hidden so well beneath those robes. 

As she starts to slide a hand beneath his tunic, though, he grabs her wrist. “Not here,” he says, reluctantly tearing his lips from hers. “And not tonight.” 

She understands the first. Somewhere in the back of her mind she’s conscious of the fact that anyone could walk in on them at any moment. None of her students need to see her straddling Rhea’s advisor without a stitch of clothing on. 

But the second…

“Why?” The question comes out in a roughly expelled breath. 

“We are both too…” His eyes darken even as he searches for the words. “Caught up in this. Neither of us are thinking clearly.” 

That seems like an added benefit to her, but she refrains from saying so.

“We are liable to make decisions that are reckless and ruled by emotion rather than rational thought,” he continues.

“That’s our choice, isn’t it?” He lets go of her wrist and she takes the opportunity to sit up, brushing the hair somewhat self-consciously from her face. “Denying this has been far worse for me. I haven’t been able to focus on anything else.” 

Some part of her still expects him to scoff and tell her she’s being ridiculous, but that’s not what she gets.

“Nor have I.” 

Emboldened by that admission, she reaches out for him. Not to touch his arm or chest as she’d imagined. Instead her fingers trace his jaw, trailing down his neck in a gesture that’s more reverent than she intended. 

Or perhaps it’s exactly as reverent as she intended. He’s right. Emotions are running high right now, something she absolutely isn’t used to. But that’s hardly going to stop her.

Even if his gaze softens considerably when he looks at her. 

“Then we owe it to ourselves to get it out of our system,” she says quietly. 

Seteth draws in a breath, and for a moment she thinks he might dismiss her entirely. Finally he answers, the words strained. “Tomorrow. If you still wish this tomorrow… come to my quarters after the last cathedral bell rings.” 

He grasps her wrist more gently than before and brushes his lips across her fingers. It’s an undeniably sweet gesture and Byleth’s heart aches in response, that flutter in her breast completely foreign to her. 

Seteth stands, offering a hand to help her to her feet. She takes it and doesn’t attempt to pull him into another kiss, too flustered by the gesture that came before. 

“I’ll see you tomorrow, then,” she promises, still unable to catch her breath. 

Even as she says it, she knows she won’t have any luck getting him out of her system. They’ve done nothing more than kiss thus far, and already she knows one night won’t be enough.


	6. The Last Bell

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know this took longer than the other chapters, but in my defense, it's almost 8,000 words, lol. I seriously can't write a smut chapter that's under 5,000, apparently. 
> 
> Earning that Explicit rating in this one, folks, so read in public at your own peril.

“Are you certain you are feeling well, Brother?” 

The question comes not ten minutes after the last time his daughter asked, though it is phrased differently this time. The fact that Flayn’s focus is so intent on him and his well-being should tell him everything he needs to know about his current state. She is not lacking in compassion or empathy--far from it--but she often daydreams as they take their meal. He’s watched her before and has seen the far-away look in her eyes, the soft smile on her lips. 

Many times he’s thought to ask, but he has never been sure he’d like the answer. Whatever she dreams about, it is likely something that will put her in harm’s way and keep her far from him. 

“Merely tired,” he says, and it is only a partial lie. 

He _is_ tired. Exhausted, in fact, but not from his work. He is tired of Byleth gracing his every thought, the memory of their spar only the most recent one to keep him so thoroughly distracted. They are not unpleasant thoughts, but they are… inconvenient. 

Even still, Seteth feels a touch of guilt as he gives such an answer. Flayn is worried over him and there is nothing he can do to reassure her. 

“You have been working far more than usual. Is Lady Rhea truly making so many demands upon your time?” 

“Having a new professor means more oversight is needed,” he explains. Again, not precisely a lie. “Byleth is untested, and I must ensure she is not becoming overwhelmed by her students. Especially considering she is in charge of the most… rambunctious group.” 

Flayn’s eyes sparkle, like moonlight hitting gentle waves. A dreamy smile graces her features, and Seteth believes he already knows what she is thinking about this time.

“I have often wondered what it would be like to be among them,” she says. Her expression changes suddenly, and she is quick to cover for her own dreams. “I know it is unwise.” 

“And unsafe,” Seteth reminds her. “The closer you become to people, the more you put yourself at risk. If they were to discover who you are…” 

“I know,” she says, looking down at her plate. 

She does not argue with him tonight, and Seteth is grateful for it. He always feels terrible having this discussion with her. In a perfect world, he would give her everything she wishes for and more. She is everything to him, and seeing her happy fills him with more joy than he has ever known. 

But they do not live in a perfect world. They live in a world in which Cethleann’s blood is hunted by those who desire greater power. And so his priority must be keeping her safe, even if she grows to hate him for it. 

“What do you think of the new professor?” 

He very nearly chokes on his tea as she asks the question. Especially when the first thoughts that come to mind are entirely inappropriate. 

“She seems a bit guarded, but I like her,” Flayn continues. “Have you seen her fish? I do not think anyone has pulled so many fish out of the pond!” 

His daughter’s face lights up as she discusses Byleth’s fishing prowess. There is something heartwarming about that, and for a moment Seteth’s mind plays the cruelest trick on him. He imagines himself at a mountain lake, watching as Byleth reels in a large fish, Flayn positively riveted and bubbling with excitement. 

It is a lovely image, but not one that will ever come to pass. And why would he ever want it to? What he feels for Byleth is entirely physical. There is no place for her in his life beyond what they have arranged for tonight. 

_As if the main deterrent is not the fact that Byleth would never wish such a thing._

“She is… competent,” he manages. “I will grant that she seems very protective of her students.” 

“Are you _certain_ you are well? Your cheeks are flushed, Brother. Perhaps you have a fever?” 

“I am fine,” he snaps, instantly regretting it. “I apologize, Flayn. I… perhaps I do need a break,” 

Her chair scrapes lightly across the rug-covered stone and she comes to stand beside him. To Seteth’s surprise, she wraps her arms around his shoulders and gives him a gentle hug. He rests a hand atop hers, his demeanor softening instantly. 

“You must take better care of yourself. Promise me you will do something that is only for you tonight?” 

It takes a monumental effort not to think about his plans for the evening. He closes his eyes, tempers himself, and just allows this moment to exist without anything else interfering. 

“I will. I promise.” 

She gives him a soft kiss on the cheek, then takes her mostly-empty plate, no doubt with the intent of returning it to the kitchen. When the door closes behind her, Seteth lets out a breath and rests his head against his hand. 

This is madness, and quite possibly the most irresponsible idea he has ever had. Flayn sleeps just a room away, and the stone walls--while thicker than some--are not soundproof. It was weakness to give in, when he should have simply left the training facility last night. It is too much of a risk to have her here, and for what purpose? Physical satisfaction alone? 

Seteth ignores the very small part of him that claims it is not only that. The same part that conjured such cruel images earlier. It is loneliness and nothing more. Considering his life span, that is to be expected, but he must overcome it. There is no need to feel lonely when he has Flayn. 

He should find Byleth and rescind the offer. But he fears he will not be able to control himself if he sees her privately, and privacy is certainly needed to have this discussion. 

All of it is a moot point, regardless. No matter the desire he felt from her in the moment--desire that was bafflingly directed toward him--it is unlikely she will even show.

*** 

Seteth works late that evening, as he has most nights for the past week. Tonight in particular, he remains in his office until just a half hour before the last bell rings. His nerves are overwrought, the work hardly something he can focus on. Much of what he does is a matter of muscle memory and drudgery, but it keeps his mind from wandering too much.

That is until he retires to his quarters once more. 

He checks in on Flayn first, finding her blessedly asleep. Watching her for a few moments is enough to calm his nerves, but that sense of serenity is quickly disrupted when he shuts himself away in his own room. 

Typically he takes tea in the evening as a means of relaxing before he sleeps, but tonight there is a need for something stronger. Pulling an absurdly old, barely touched bottle of wine from a cabinet, he pours a sizeable glass, selects a book from the shelf, and sits in one of the overstuffed chairs before the hearth to wait.

No reading actually occurs, of course. His gaze moves over the same passage several times before the bell’s sonorous chime plays upon his already frazzled nerves. She will not show. He tells himself this over and over.

_But what if she does?_

Seteth snaps his book closed and takes another generous gulp of wine. If she does show, he will be forced to confront the fact that he has not been with a woman in… longer than he cares to admit. There have only been two encounters since his wife, both of them due to a prolonged moment of weakness on his part and an inability to ignore his own loneliness. 

He tells himself that is exactly what this is, though he was not nearly so nervous over pleasing the others. He has never been a selfish lover, but for some reason his mind seems to fixate on shattering Byleth’s usual stoicism. A feat certainly managed in the training yard, but that was quite likely a matter of pent-up desire more than anything else. This is more calculated, and it feels as though there are so many ways to misstep…

Seteth lets out a frustrated sigh and rubs two fingers against his forehead. Indech would call him foolish, were he here. Foolish indeed to worry so over a human. Perhaps it is fortunate, then, that his old friend cannot be here to see him now. And that no one else is privy to the thoughts that are far from indecent, but still deeply improper. 

It is those thoughts that prompt him to pour more wine and try his book again, to greater success this time. A warmth comes over him, a pleasant tingle settling into the back of his mind as the alcohol has the intended effect. After some time, he notices how long it has been since the last bell rang. By the time a full hour passes, he realizes he was right all along.

She is not going to show.

The staggering amount of disappointment he feels at such a reality is shameful, and Seteth’s mood sours considerably. It is something he knows he needs to shake quickly, as he was in no way entitled to this little rendezvous. Byleth has simply shown more restraint and maturity than he himself has exhibited, and he should not fault her for that.

By far the most wise plan is to blow out the candle and prepare himself for bed. He leans over to do so, the exhale gusting over the flickering flame just as he hears a soft knock at his door. Seteth’s heart kicks into a wild rhythm immediately, practically pounding against his ribcage. He stands and walks toward the door, smoothing down his robes with one hand and wondering if he should have changed. His mind has been so preoccupied he had not even considered it.

Drawing in a steadying breath, he reaches for the door and finds the expected visitor there, her hands clasped together as though she was wringing them. She wears a far more modest coat than he has ever seen from her before, though the attire beneath is her standard fare. That low-cut bodice, shorts, stockings. 

Seteth glances behind her, his paranoia not helped by his nerves. There is no one in the hall at this hour, and he steps back to allow her entry into his room. It feels rude not to have greeted her thus far, but he does not wish to risk Flayn hearing his voice.

“Sorry I’m so late,” Byleth says, closing and locking the door behind her. Prudent. “My students were especially needy today.” 

What her students could wish of her at such a late hour, he cannot fathom. Then again, the Riegan boy and his cohorts are not ones to keep a set schedule if they can help it. 

“I merely invited you to come here after the last bell. I did not say precisely when beyond that,” Seteth says, playing down her tardiness as if he has not felt every excruciating second.

“That seems unlike you.” There’s a glint in her eyes caught by the bedside candle. “You truly must be distracted.” 

His laugh is somewhat strained, but she seems surprised by it nonetheless. Though for what reason, he does not know. Just because he does not regularly laugh at her dry sense of humor does not mean he is completely humorless. 

Another thing he is over-analyzing. Evidently the alcohol is wearing off.

“Would you… care for some wine?” he asks, making his way to the small table. 

Byleth’s own laugh is strained. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees her wringing her hands again. “Wine sounds like a very good idea, yes.” 

She seems as nervous as he is. Having second-thoughts, perhaps? 

“This is old, and rather potent.” Seteth pours a generous measure into a new glass and splashes a bit more in his own. 

He offers her the glass, and her fingers brush his as she takes it, a frisson racing up his spine at the simple contact. The slightest shiver he sees from Byleth makes it clear the experience was mutual, which does serve to bolster him somewhat. 

Enough that he does not disguise his active interest in her, his gaze lingering on her lips as she sips the wine. They stain a deeper red, and his tongue traces along his own lip unbidden, a strong desire to taste her overcoming him. 

“Here I thought you were exaggerating,” she says, her voice a bit rough. The face she makes is endearing, though mostly humorous. “I think this is the strongest wine I’ve ever tasted. How old is it?” 

“Around three hundred years.” 

She puts a fist up to her mouth as she coughs, speaking only once she has recovered. “And you just keep a bottle in your quarters?” 

Ah. Yes, of course that would seem like a long time to a human. Already he is not thinking clearly. 

“As you can see, it has barely been touched before tonight.” The flush that rises to her cheeks makes him wonder if he has said too much. “It… was a long day, and I wished to relax a bit.” 

“Right.” She clears her throat, chasing away the last of her cough as she gestures to one of the chairs. “May I sit?” 

This is all so very awkward, in a way it absolutely was not when they were sparring. Perhaps he _should_ have allowed things to continue there.

“Ah, yes. Please.” 

Seteth resumes his own seat after another sip of wine. The mildest sense of vertigo reminds him that he has had two glasses already and he sets the drink aside. Byleth, meanwhile, takes a sizeable drink. 

He should be doing something to put her at ease. Perhaps if she is at ease, he will also overcome this tangle of nerves currently tying him into knots.

“Is there a reason your students were particularly difficult today?” he asks. 

She draws in a breath. “They’re mostly just restless, I think. There are rumors going around about someone abducting people in the middle of the night. It’s made them a little stir-crazy.” 

“Baseless rumors, I am sure. The security here is ironclad.” 

Byleth hums softly, a solitary note from between her closed lips. She takes another drink, the fingers of her free hand flexing against the arm of the chair. “I’ve never been very good at smalltalk. And I don’t think either of us are looking to spend the night discussing the guard presence at Garreg Mach.” 

“No, I suppose not.” His own fingers twitch reflexively, the desire to reach for his wine glass again quite strong. He resists. “I want you to know that if you have changed your mind, we can simply finish this drink and leave it at that. If you wish it, we can refrain from crossing that line, because once it is crossed…” 

“Seteth.” She pauses for such an agonizingly long time that he is forced to meet her gaze. There is something remarkably steady in her blue eyes that calms him. “That line has been crossed for some time.” 

Yes, perhaps it has. Seteth swallows, his gaze cutting once more to his glass. Again he resists. 

“And yet there is still an opportunity to walk away, should you wish it.” 

It feels vitally important to give her that option. Some part of him is still convinced she will take it, even now. She _should_ take it. Everything will be so much less complicated if she does.

_Relying on someone a fraction of your age to make the choices you should be making, are we? How pathetic._

“I’m not interested in going backward,” Byleth says, her gaze directed away from him, a pensive look on her face. “Only forward. Unless…” When she turns to look at him, there is an uncharacteristic crease between her brows. “Are you having second thoughts?” 

That hint of self-consciousness feels reassuring somehow. At least he is not the only one out of his depth. 

“It would be easier if I was,” he admits. 

The corner of her lips twitch upward, betraying a small smile. “Do you really want easy?” 

He chuckles at that and finally gives in to the impulse to reach for his glass, lifting it toward her before taking a sip. 

“We’re both adults. We’re being discrete. I wore a coat that’s downright modest for this,” she says with a small smirk. “I fail to see the problem.” 

“This will change things. Even if it is just for tonight,” he says softly, ignoring the part of him that already dislikes such an idea. “We will both have… intimate knowledge that cannot easily be forgotten.” 

“Good. I can finally stop imagining those details and experience them for myself.” 

She says it so casually that for a moment, Seteth imagines she cannot possibly mean what he believes she means. But the heat in her eyes is unmistakable.

“Does that surprise you?” she asks, the barest hint of a tease in her voice.

Seteth’s throat suddenly feels unbearably dry. “I…” 

Byleth stands, and he watches her form cast shadows against the stone walls as she undoes the clasp at her neck, then shrugs out of her coat. It is easy to feel mesmerized, even by so simple an action. For several moments he forgets they were in the middle of a conversation. For several moments he questions if this is even real, or just another fantasy.

“Last night, before I went to the training yard, I tried to relieve that tension in a more direct way.” 

Goddess, the images that statement conjures. To imagine Byleth moving her hands deftly over her own body, seeking out her pleasure is more than enough to fuel his own fantasies for some time to come. The fact that _he_ inspired such things, however…

“I see,” he says, somehow managing to find his voice. “And… what did you imagine?” 

Even from here, he can see the hint of nerves and uncertainty. Once again it is a comfort that she is not completely confident in this seduction, though he wonders if she is afraid to admit her deepest desires to him.

Setting his glass aside for the final time, Seteth moves to stand before her, his fingers beneath her chin as he tilts her face up so he can look into her eyes. “I ask because I have a vested interest in fulfilling those desires. Tell me.” 

Her breath hitches, her eyes darkening as she looks up at him. He has never noticed how much smaller she is than him before. Not fragile, exactly. But there is something in him that wants to ensure she is always given everything she needs. 

“I… imagined things continuing in your office,” she finally answers. Seteth suppresses a shudder as the memory of that moment hits him with full force. “Though that became impractical quickly, so it moved here. And… I thought of your hands and mouth on every inch of my body, my arms bound so I was completely at your mercy.”

The slumbering beast stirs within him once more, the thought of her naked and vulnerable beneath him undeniably appealing. That she would ever place such trust in him seems beyond belief. He yearns to make it a reality, but there is a difference between what is desired in fantasy and what is actually acted upon.

Byleth, meanwhile, seems oblivious to his internal struggle, the hint of a smile ghosting across her lips. “You chided me several times for being impatient.” 

“That… does sound like something I would do,” he says, struggling to form words. 

As he watches, her long, nimble fingers reach for the laces of her bodice. She begins to undo them one by one, the garment loosening slowly. “Not to put too fine a point on it, but I didn’t come here tonight to just talk about what I want from you.” 

He lets out a ragged breath and takes a step closer. So close, in fact, that he can feel the heat radiating off of her body. She deftly grasps the last few laces between three fingers and tugs. Already he can see there is nothing beneath the bodice, the gradual reveal of bare skin far too captivating. 

“Do you trust me?” The words come out roughly, his throat heavily constricted, but he meets her gaze so she understands his intent.

“I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t.” 

Reaching out, Seteth’s fingers close around hers. “Then allow me.” 

There is a question in that plea that extends beyond this moment. Searching her eyes, he finds the answer, her half-lidded gaze fixed on him. She simply nods, withdrawing her hand to keep it at her side. 

Seteth continues where she left off, undoing the last lace of her bodice. His hands move over her hips and she shivers as his fingers brush bare skin, hooking beneath the loosened garment to remove it. He sets it aside with care, pacing himself even though everything in him wishes to take in the sight before him. When he finally does, his breath catches in his throat.

She has the body of a mercenary, her torso thick with muscle, but her full breasts convey something softer and uniquely feminine. Rosy nipples are already stiffened, begging for his attention, but Seteth resists for the moment. 

His fingers skim over her abdomen, the muscles jumping reflexively against his touch as he makes his way to the fastenings of her shorts. He undoes them slowly, sliding the tight material over her hips, finding with no small measure of surprise that she is wearing nothing under these, as well. 

That surprise must show on his face, because she comments on it, her voice roughened by desire. “I wasn’t interested in creating more barriers between us tonight.” 

He says nothing, only because he cannot seem to find his voice. Sliding her shorts all the way down, his gaze roves over her mostly-naked body. From the luscious curve of her breasts to the flare of her hips, trailing inward to the light dusting of hair at the apex of her thighs, and further down to admire just how muscular those thighs are. 

At some point he will have to acknowledge that this is not just a fantasy, but it certainly feels like one. Especially when, as he takes in her bare skin--already marred by faded combat scars--his first thought is that he would like to leave his own marks upon her body. Nothing permanent, but a reminder that she is his and his alone. At least for tonight.

He knows exactly where that sudden flare of possession comes from, but for once he does not fight it. Lowering himself into a crouch, Seteth unlaces her boots and offers his shoulder for her to brace against as he removes them, his fingers trailing over her stocking-clad calf. They travel upward, finding the garter on each thigh and unclasping the strip of fabric. He slides the stockings off slowly, and from the fine tremble that eases through her, he can tell she is practicing great restraint to simply remain in place as he does so. 

“This is somewhat unfair,” she comments as he rises to his full height once more. “You’re still fully dressed.” 

There is something purposefully defiant in her gaze, and he knows she is going to reach for him before she even does it. He also knows how she wants him to respond. He grabs her wrist and uses his weight to guide her back to the wall. She gasps as her bare skin presses against the cold stone, and Seteth pins her arm above her head, reaching for the other, as well. 

“I will even the score when I am ready to do so, Professor. For now, I have plans for you that do not require me to disrobe.” 

Her lips part, some protest no doubt forming. He silences her with a forceful, hungry kiss, beyond pleased when she answers with the same. He would never have expected her to be so responsive, considering how reserved she usually is, but the feedback she gives him in that one action is ample proof that she is enjoying this game. So too is her attempt to hitch one leg over his hip, something Seteth encourages by pressing his body flush to hers. 

His tongue sweeps into her mouth, her taste exotic and impossible to describe, but something he knows he will crave well beyond tonight. Bracing one arm across both her wrists, he moves his free hand down her body. Between her breasts, and stopping just shy of her hips, avoiding everywhere he knows she wants him to touch. 

Finally he does grant her that wish, his hand coming up to massage her full breast. She does not quite fit his palm, so Seteth spreads his fingers, kneading the flesh with a reverent touch. She presses into his hand, her soft moan muffled against his mouth as his thumb glides over her nipple. 

He pulls reluctantly away from her mouth, but only to skim her jaw with his lips, painting a trail to her ear. Taking the lobe between his teeth, he gently bites down, reveling in the gasp she lets out and the way she arches against him. 

“Seteth…” Her voice shakes as she says his name, and something insistent thrums within his veins in answer. 

His thumb makes another pass over her hardened nipple before he grasps the firm, sensitive flesh between thumb and forefinger. He is gentle at first, but as her breath quickens, he pinches harder, drawing a loud, throaty moan from her. 

Need pulses through him, that sound so very satisfying. But even in this state, he is aware of how dangerous it is. 

“You must remain quiet,” he murmurs against her lips, bridging the distance to kiss her in a manner that is as fierce as it is possessive. 

He wants to hear her lose control. He wants to know the effect he is having on her. And when she comes apart, he wants his name to be the one she screams into the silence. They do not have that luxury here, and yet he has no plans to relent. 

Without warning, he releases her arms and slides his hands beneath her, gripping her tightly as he lifts her up. Her arms come around his shoulders, legs wrapping around his waist as he presses her back against the wall once more. Another kiss follows, deep and needy, but he continues downward, blazing a trail over her flushed skin. He presses open-mouthed kisses along her throat, the edge of his teeth scraping at the ridge of her collarbone before he moves on. 

His beard scrapes against the sensitive flesh of her breast and he feels her shiver beneath him, her muffled sound an obvious attempt to control a moan. It is far too tempting to make that process incredibly difficult for her, and Seteth cannot resist the allure. Rather than immediately attend to her nipple, he swirls his tongue around it, presses kisses to her skin, and avoids giving in entirely until she lets out a soft whimper. Then his tongue flicks over the beaded flesh and she arches more fully against him, her gasp so very gratifying. He draws her nipple into his mouth and revels in the sound of her struggling with her own desires, even as he uses his body to pin her against the wall so one of his hands can be freed to attend her other breast. 

Testing a theory he has begun to develop, he scrapes his teeth ever-so-lightly across her nipple. She cries out in pleasure, her thighs flexing around him, and the beast inside practically purrs in delight. Of course she responds to his more base instincts. She is made for him.

It is a thought Seteth would be shocked to have under any other circumstances, but right now, his mind is too clouded with lust to examine it. 

He cannot simply give in, though. If she wishes him to control this situation, then that is what he will do.

“I do believe I told you to be quiet, Professor,” he says, his voice thick with desire as he draws back from her. 

“You’re asking the impossible, if you’re going to keep doing such things.” She is breathless, chest heaving with the effort of her labored breathing.

“I could always stop.” 

Her fingers curl reflexively against his neck, the bite of her nails drawing a hiss of pleasure from him. “Don’t you dare.” 

He lets out a rough chuckle, a glint in his eyes as his hands move to support her. He pulls her more firmly against his own body and lifts her from the wall, capturing her mouth with his as he maneuvers them both toward the bed. He indulges at first, falling onto the mattress with her, his weight pressing down on her as he continues to savor the feeling of her lips on his, her body so warm and pliant beneath him. 

But Byleth indulges, as well, her fingers curling tightly in his hair, one hand attempting to undo the buttons of his robes. She manages two before he finally takes action, pulling away from her and pushing himself off of the bed. 

“You were right,” he says, unfastening the cloth belt at his waist. “You _are_ impatient.” 

He can see the spark of excitement in her eyes as she watches him. He never would have guessed she could desire such a thing from him, but he is all too happy to oblige. With the belt held between his fingers, he grips her hips and shifts her further onto the mattress, then gathers her hands behind her head and pins them there while he draws the cloth tight around them, binding her wrists together. 

She lets out a shuddering breath and he catches her gaze as he draws back. There is raw need there, but also an appreciation that fills him with more satisfaction than he ever could have anticipated. 

He takes a moment to look down at her and appreciate this gift he has been given. And it truly is a gift, one Seteth does not intend to take for granted. He will make this evening entirely about her, denying his own pleasure until he can do so no longer. And that must start with mapping out the rest of her body with his hands, lips, tongue, and teeth. 

Settling beside her on the mattress, his hand strokes down the length of her body, fingers tracing the definition of muscles and scars as his mouth continues where it left off. He attends to the other breast, then, drawing her nipple between his lips. He can feel her holding her breath, waiting for that subtle flash of pain, but he keeps her waiting for some time before finally giving her what she wishes. 

She bites her lip hard, her moan muffled, and Seteth continues down her body, his fingers gliding over the smooth flesh of her inner thigh. He dips between her legs, tracing a featherlight touch over her sex. The fact that she is soaking wet already sends a shock of lust through him, but he ignores it in favor of focusing on her reactions. Her legs part, opening for him, and Seteth strokes her in a way he is certain is far more gentle than she craves. When his fingers finally grant attention to that insistent, swollen bud, she bucks against him, her thighs quaking. 

“Is this how you touched yourself when you thought of me?” He rubs more firmly, keeping a steady rhythm. 

“Yes,” she breathes, that single word stuttered by a soft gasp.

His mouth moves further downward, his lips painting a trail to the ridge of her hip bone. He follows it to where it meets her thigh and scrapes his teeth along her skin before biting down. Her low moan shivers through her and she arches off the bed. Seteth applies just enough suction to leave a visible mark behind, his tongue laving over the redness before he moves on. Soft kisses are interspersed with the light pinch of teeth as he continues along her inner thigh, his hands moving to better hold her down, bracing her against the mattress. 

He shifts positions to fully appreciate his task and pulls her closer to him, his head buried between her thighs as he begins to follow the path laid out by his fingers with his tongue. She writhes beneath him, so very sensitive and responsive to everything he does from the slow, broad swipe of his tongue to the scrape of his beard against her thigh. The taste of her is intoxicating, and he forgets the game entirely as he feasts upon willing flesh, licking and sucking with abandon. 

Byleth’s hips roll, only stopped by his arms braced against her. Her whole body contracts tightly, begging him to give her what she needs, the sounds she makes coming out in stuttered gasps and whimpers. When he finally focuses his attention on her clit, her thighs clench and her abdominal muscles tighten, her release certain to follow soon after. Again Seteth does not relent, drawing that bud into his mouth, the flat of his tongue pressing rhythmically against it. 

When she breaks, it is with a tightly-controlled moan, his name a whisper on her lips. Her muscles begin to twitch from overstimulation, and only then does he let up, lifting his head to look at her. She is absolutely stunning. Breathing heavily, skin flushed, eyes closed as ripples of pleasure continue to course through her. 

_Goddess, she is beautiful._

It is a softer thought than what belongs in this moment, but he cannot help it. Especially when she looks up at him half-lidded, something similarly soft in her lovely blue eyes. He captures her mouth in a kiss that is as passionate as any they have shared thus far, but also something else. A thorough, sensual caress that makes his heart squeeze in his chest. He cannot afford to dwell on it or indulge such a whim, and he is grateful when Byleth’s response turns ravenous once more. 

He rests much of his weight atop her and uses one hand to undo the buttons of his robe, one of them snapping its thread in his hurried state. A problem for tomorrow, as right now the only thing he cares about is feeling her skin against his. He breaks the kiss and pushes up to his knees to remove the garment, casting it aside with far less care than he displayed earlier in the evening. Byleth watches every move he makes, eyes hungry as he stands, pulling down his breeches. The bulge in his smallclothes is more than noticeable, and he feels her gaze on him as he hooks his fingers into the waist of them and tugs downward, finally as bared to her as she is to him. 

In some ways, it is difficult for him to feel at home in this form. It has changed over time, the nature of what he is requiring him to adjust to best protect himself and Flayn. He was never especially partial to any of his features, but the appraisal Byleth gives him--full of heat and hunger and honest appreciation as her gaze roves shamelessly over every part of his body--makes him feel as if he belongs in this form. As if it is as much a part of him as any other, and if it pleases her, then he is more than content with it.

Another thought he does not need to examine. Fortunately his more insistent needs do not leave much space for thought. Climbing back onto the bed, he unbinds the belt tying her hands, wanting to feel as much of her as he can. She responds immediately, her fingers spread, palms moving over his back as he kisses her, reveling in the feel of her flush against him. Her legs wrap around him once more, bringing their bodies in even closer contact, and he does nothing to stop her from rolling her hips against him, the friction of it pulling a soft groan from him. 

But as often seems to be the case with Byleth, one desire granted leads to her pursuing several more. He feels the muscles in her thighs contract and clench around him, but he is not fully aware of what she intends until her hands move to his chest. She flips their position with surprising ease, much like he did in their sparring bout, and Seteth ends up on his back, breathless for more than one reason. 

Byleth seems eager to alter the fantasy, and he is happy to let her. Her soft lips caress his overheated skin as she gives him the same thorough attention he provided before. Her palm moves over his chest and she seems absolutely enamored with the light dusting of hair there. Her lips even curve into a smile against his chest, something Seteth is not given time to think about before her tongue flicks out to swipe across the flat of his nipple. 

He gasps, the jolt of pleasure that runs through him far more than he expected. He has denied himself this kind of attention for far too long, and Byleth seems inclined to remedy that fact. She is not as slow and deliberate as he was. Certainly not as patient. But her hands and mouth are more than welcome, and Seteth cannot find any complaint with her eagerness, even as her palm moves over his abdomen, the taut muscle there clenching in anticipation. She grips his cock firmly, without an ounce of restraint as she begins to stroke him. Her fingers wrapping around him, her palm sliding over sensitive flesh is pure bliss, and he closes his eyes, leaning his head back against the mattress. 

She adjusts on the bed, and soon he feels her tongue tracing the line of his hips, her teeth soon following. He’s unable to stifle his soft moan at that, burying one of his hands in her hair. She presses her mouth to him, her hand moving lower to accommodate. His hips buck involuntarily at just that first contact of her lips, and he already knows he won’t be able to withstand this for long.

Byleth drags her tongue along the length of him, tracing the underside of the crown in a way that makes him shiver, his fingers gripping tighter in her hair. When he opens his eyes, he finds her own fixed on him as she takes the head of his cock into her mouth. She wants something from him--that gaze practically demands it--and it takes her slowing her motions and acting in a deliberate, teasing manner for him to understand. 

“Byleth…” Her name escapes his lips in a shaky exhale. He groans as she presses her tongue beneath a sensitive ridge. “The things you do to me.” 

His hips rise from the bed, and as soon as they do, she relaxes her mouth, holding him more firmly. He meets her gaze once more, her eyes practically pleading. It’s enough for him to loosen his grip on his self-control, a bit of the beast surfacing as he thrusts into her mouth, his fingers gripping tightly in her hair. She maintains eye contact with him throughout, and he can see a shameless yearning that calls to him, threatening to send her over the edge even more than the feeling of her mouth around him. 

She wants him to lose control; wants to see the side he keeps locked away. And right now, he wants her to see it, too. He wants her to know every part of him. 

Pulling away from her, he tugs hard on her hair to draw her back to him and captures her mouth in a searing kiss. Her moan vibrates through his body, bolstering him as he uses his strength to push her against the bed, the front of her body pressed into the mattress. He leans over her, resting his weight atop her as he murmurs in her ear.

“Tell me you do not want this and I will control myself.” The words are strained, his body entirely disinterested in such a path, but he must give her the choice.

Byleth’s breathless chuckle is answer enough. “I’m not going to break. Fuck me, Seteth. Please.” 

The crassness of her request and the begging that accompanies it is too much. He lets go of that last shred of control and grips the base of his cock, positioning himself behind her. He rubs the head along her slit, teasing her clit until she squirms beneath him, pressing back in an attempt to get what she wants. 

In one strong motion, he answers her plea, driving into her. She turns her head to muffle her moan against the mattress, and it is all Seteth can do to suppress his own. She is just tight enough around him to provide such wonderful friction, but so very wet that he can sheathe himself inside of her with ease, his thighs flush against her. She squeezes around him and he lets himself enjoy the sensation and just how right it feels to be so intimately joined with her. Before his emotions can exert their own form of control, Seteth leans into his true nature and draws back only to thrust into her once more, her whole body responding to his. 

He does exactly what she asked: Fucks her with wild abandon, his pace that of some savage beast who only has one thing on his mind. He controls himself just enough to angle his thrusts and stays conscious of her response as she pushes back against him, demanding more with words and actions. 

The controlled, cautious man is left behind in favor of something more feral, and he leans over her once more, his weight pressing against her as his hips continue to snap forward. Drawing back her hair, he finds unmarred skin on her shoulder and bites down. Hard. She cries out in pleasure, her body seizing around him, her climax sudden and violent and practically demanding his own.

It is all Seteth can do to pull out of her before his body gives in. His release slams into him just as forcefully as hers and he muffles his cry against her shoulder, all of that pent-up desire coalescing into blinding pleasure. 

For several long moments he just pants against her, his face nestled against her sweat-slick skin. As he slowly regains control of his senses, the first thing he sees is the angry red marks he has created. 

“Goddess, that was…” He can barely breathe, but still worry winds through him. 

“If the next word out of your mouth isn’t ‘perfect,’ then you and I clearly had different experiences.” 

By contrast, Byleth’s voice sounds at ease. Blissful, even, and when she turns beneath him, resting on her back, he sees the same thing reflected in her eyes. She reaches for him, her touch surprisingly tender as her hand rests at the back of his head, drawing him into a soft, lingering kiss. 

“I hope I did not hurt you,” he murmurs against her lips. “I did not intend to leave a mark in such a visible location.” 

“That’s what high collars are for,” she says, a spark of mischief in her eyes. Her nails drag over his back and he shivers in response. “And besides, I…”

A lovely blush colors her cheeks, mildly baffling in its innocence considering their current state. There is something utterly enchanting about it, though, and Seteth is captivated, gently stroking her cheek with his knuckles. 

“I like seeing that side of you. And being the one to bring it out.” 

“I have not allowed myself such a thing in… some time,” he admits, “but I do not regret it in the slightest. That was…” His lips curve into a soft smile. “Perfect.” 

Her blush deepens and she brushes her lips over his in what seems like an impulsive gesture. Her gaze strays to the far wall, and he does not understand why until she speaks again.

“I know I can’t stay through the night, but… I’m not ready to go back to my own room just yet.” 

Seteth’s heart twists in his chest. That she is so considerate of the limitations of this arrangement both pains and pleases him. He can no longer say it surprises him that he wishes she _could_ stay. 

“Then stay for a time.” _Or forever._ “I will wake you before morning, should you fall asleep.” 

As soon as the words leave his mouth, he already knows this is not going to be a one-time occurrence. In no way is she out of his system. If anything, she is going to be an inextricable part of his life from this moment forth. 

He cannot even begin to reconcile that fact. She does not know him--what he truly is, or what Flayn is to him. She is human, and he cannot bear to lose someone so quickly, even if it is simply through outliving them. There is also every chance she wants nothing more than this from him, when he can already feel himself wanting more. 

But those are concerns for another day. For tonight, Seteth just allows himself to be happy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Updates will probably be a bit slower, as this is the end of what I'd actually planned out, but not the end of the fic by any means. Mood's going to shift next chapter, though, as it's time for precious bean Flayn to be kidnapped.


	7. The Frayed Bond

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fair warning, this chapter has some *mad* emotional whiplash. Hoo boy. I remember the halcyon days of Like Three Weeks Ago, 2019 where I was like "lol what if Claude challenged Byleth to seduce Seteth." 
> 
> Such innocence. Such naivete.

She wakes to the feeling of warmth surrounding her. 

It’s such a foreign concept to her mind that Byleth is at first a bit disoriented by it. She’s used to waking alone on the cold, hard ground in a camp, or--more recently--on the serviceable mattress within her room. Typically as she comes to consciousness, she feels Sothis’ presence in her mind, her constant companion waking, as well. But that doesn’t happen this time, and if it wasn’t for the strange feeling of ease that settles deep into her bones, she might panic.

Instead, Byleth nestles closer to the source of the warmth, drawing in an earthy scent that’s mixed with the hint of spice. She’s only come to know that smell very recently, but already it is a familiar comfort, grounding her in the moment as the memories of last night begin to surface in her mind.

It’s a good thing, too, because without that sensory detail, she wouldn’t believe it. The idea that she kept her nerve and visited Seteth’s quarters is surprising enough. That he’d given her everything she wanted and more would have been solely within the realm of fantasy, could she not feel the steady thrum of his heartbeat and his fingers tracing lazy circles over her bare back. 

“I am sorry to wake you, but it is nearly morning,” he murmurs, his reluctance obvious in his voice. 

Byleth makes the wonderful mistake of looking up at him and catches the source of the warmth that has seemed to permeate every inch of her. Not just the heat of his body, but the man himself. There’s a softness in his sea green eyes as he looks at her; a tenderness that stirs that flutter within her breast once more. 

There’s something both agonizing and blissful about the feeling that makes itself known in that moment. It’s something Byleth has never experienced before, yet it aches in the sweetest fashion. It passes in a few moments, though, and the feeling that supplants it is one that _is_ known to her--a touch of awkwardness as she realizes she’s going to have to go through today acting as if she didn’t spend the night with this man.

And what about the future? She already wants to draw him into a deep, lingering kiss, trail her hand down his toned body, and coax him into an encore. Perhaps that desire will fade once she’s no longer in the same room with him, but she doubts it. 

She pulls away from him with great reluctance, cold sweeping over her bare skin the moment she’s no longer in his embrace. To her amusement and secret delight, Seteth looks away from her as she rises, a blush staining his cheeks. 

“I think we’re beyond the point where modesty is necessary, Seteth,” she says, a soft, teasing lilt to her voice. 

At least she’s not the only one unsure of where things stand between them. 

“This is for my benefit more than yours.” His voice is strained, and when she looks at him over her shoulder, she finds his eyes blazing with an insistent heat. “Lest I forget myself and keep you until morning.” 

“Ah. Well. We wouldn’t want that,” Byleth murmurs, a flush spreading across her skin. 

It takes a shocking amount of restraint not to return to him, but somehow she manages. They do need to get on with their respective days, and she isn’t eager to explain her presence to Seteth’s sister. As protective as he is of her, she doesn’t imagine it would go over well. 

Instead she enjoys the fact that she can feel his eyes on her as she dresses. Something that only fuels the surge of memories, her mind recalling every detail of how he removed each article of clothing the night before. She’d never imagined something so excruciatingly slow and deliberate could be so exciting, but her breath quickens just thinking about it. So much so that she very nearly gives in and asks him to assist her, but she’s positive such a request wouldn’t end with her being dressed and ready to return to her own room.

As she dons her coat, Byleth resigns herself to the fact that she is, in fact, going to leave. That brings its own set of concerns, though, and a fair dose of self-consciousness winds through her as she realizes she has no idea how to part ways with him. Not just in the sense that she doesn’t want to leave, but… what does she say? What does she do? 

She looks back at him, taking in the sight of his lean, muscular form. His hair is a mess, his appearance completely disheveled, and it serves to temper some of Byleth’s desire with more of that softness from before. 

It still doesn’t provide an answer to her question, but she soldiers on regardless, idly wondering if she can make use of Sothis’ abilities to erase a social blunder. “Thank you. For… last night.” 

He laughs, the sound so unburdened that it immediately charms her, to the point where she feels a strong desire to bring about such a laugh in the future. “Why would you possibly thank me? I should be thanking you. You are…” 

Her breath hitches, a flush stealing across her cheeks. Some anxious part of her doesn’t want him to finish that sentence, and so she finally makes up her mind on how to end what has been a lovelier night than she could have ever imagined. Moving over to the bed, she rests one palm against the mattress and leans in to brush her lips against his. 

She leaves him with a smile, the same expression lingering on her own lips.

*** 

If that tryst was meant to help Byleth keep her focus on her daily tasks, it certainly failed. 

She spends much of the next day in something of a daze. Her expression remains stoic for the most part, and her students don’t seem to pick up on the changes. ...Most of her students, anyway. 

She’s set them to the task of reading from one of the Academy’s tactical manuals while she catches up on grading. It’s perhaps a lazy way to instruct, but she spent the morning giving everyone individual attention and helping them further their goals, so she thinks she’s owed a bit of quiet time. Besides, she’s well aware that most of her fawns will choose to do anything but the reading she’s assigned. 

Dorothea’s choice of activity unfortunately involves watching her from beneath her lashes--a coy observation that does not go unnoticed by Byleth. She meets the young woman’s emerald gaze at one point and lifts her brows in silent question. Dorothea takes it as an invitation to approach her desk, and Byleth sighs. 

“Did you need assistance?” 

There’s a knowing look in her student’s eyes that unsettles her. Suddenly she wonders if she’s been as obvious as she feels. Does Dorothea know? Does everyone know? She glances behind the songstress and finds nearly all of her students engrossed in their various tasks--except Claude, who predictably winks at her. 

“_I_ don’t, but I think you might.” She lowers her voice so only Byleth can hear, a devilish grin curving her lips. “Though it seems like you’ve already been _thoroughly_ assisted, Professor.” 

Heat rises in her neck, making a swift run for her cheeks. Byleth tries her best to control it, but she can still feel the warmth flooding her body as images of last night return to her conscious mind.

“I have no idea what that’s supposed to mean,” she says dismissively, turning her attention back to the papers. 

She rereads Raphael’s earnest but fumbling first paragraph for the third time, unable to focus enough to mark the obvious mistakes. Dorothea remains, unappeased by her blatant lie. 

“I might let you slide--it’s none of my business, after all--but… well.” She leans a little closer and drops her voice to a whisper. “That collar doesn’t cover _quite_ as much as you might think.”

Byleth sucks in a breath, unable to resist the urge to tug the collar of her bodice down. Her fingers brush over that mark--still a little tender--and she suppresses a shiver. She can tell she’s blushing beet red now, and Dorothea looks all too pleased with herself.

“Just trying to help a girl out,” she says with a grin. “As much as I’m dying to know the details, your personal business is just that.” 

“I… appreciate that. Has anyone else noticed?” she asks, glancing up at Dorothea. 

“Oh, I don’t think so. Maybe Claude. He notices everything.” 

Again she glances quickly behind Dorothea, but Claude is engaged in quiet conversation with Hilda. She opens her mouth to thank Dorothea again, but before she can get the words out, the door of the Golden Deer classroom opens, permitting entry to the man who’s been a fixture in her thoughts all day. 

There’s an energy in the air that Byleth doesn’t like, and immediately she can tell something is wrong.

Seteth catches her gaze for a moment before addressing her classroom. “I am sorry to interrupt, but I must speak to your professor about an urgent matter.” 

“Continue with your reading,” Byleth says, not hesitating as she follows him out of the classroom. 

Before she can even ask him what’s wrong, he comes out with it. “Flayn is missing.” 

Worry is etched deep into his features and his eyes barely contain his panic. She feels the strongest urge to pull him into an embrace, which is ridiculous. That’s not going to help him. She needs to be level-headed. Focused on the problem at hand. Not… _emotional_. When did she start to value feelings over logic? 

“Tell me everything you know.” She beckons him to walk with her, heading toward the Archbishop’s office. 

What he knows isn’t much. Certainly not enough. But Byleth speaks with Rhea and agrees to have her class focus entirely on finding Flayn. As soon as she returns, she sets them to it and recruits Claude to help her specifically, the two of them canvasing the monastery grounds, talking to anyone who might have seen her.

Over and over she hears people muse about Flayn potentially running away, but it just doesn’t make sense. She’s witnessed Seteth’s… overbearing nature when it comes to his sister, but Flayn doesn’t seem to be the foolish type. She also doesn’t seem to be someone who would hurt him like that.

All she can think is that perhaps the rumors are true, and she wonders if she should have done a better job of investigating instead of brushing them off. 

_Or becoming otherwise distracted…_

“You seem pretty gung-ho about this, Teach. Am I to guess you and Seteth reached some kind of truce?” Claude asks after they finish talking with one of the cooks. 

“I don’t need a truce to care about what happens to Flayn,” she says testily. One side glance at Claude is enough to tell her she might as well answer him, though. “But yes. We’re… we worked out our…” Oh, Goddess. She closes her eyes and tries to suppress a blush. “...Differences.” 

“Good for you. I knew you had it in you, Teach.” He claps her on the shoulder and she expects an additional quip, but he simply wanders off in search of something else. 

That response is baffling to her, but she’s grateful for it. Claude’s indifference allows her to refocus on the task at hand, and she surveys much of the monastery with the Golden Deer house leader. When they speak to students and faculty, Byleth is the straightforward one, while Claude takes an alternate route, asking tertiary questions to lead the questioned to the answers he seeks. 

He really is incredibly bright, and Byleth feels a surge of pride as she watches him work. By the end of the day, they’ve planted a number of different seeds she hopes will soon bear fruit, for Seteth’s sake. She knows he must be worried sick over his sister, and each day that passes is another day where she could be in mortal peril.

That worry manifests in him not taking an evening meal, something she learns by discreetly asking the kitchen staff. She waits until just before they’re about to close up and has them make a plate with the foods he prefers, then takes a tray and some fresh tea to his quarters. She isn’t especially bothered by people seeing her--this is a kind gesture for a fellow faculty member, after all, and nothing more. 

Shifting the tray to one arm, she knocks on his door and waits before announcing herself. “Seteth? I brought you something to eat.” 

Silence answers, and for several moments Byleth wonders if he’s even here. But then she hears a shuffling inside and the soft sound of footsteps. When the door opens, the sight that greets her is heartbreaking. There are bags under his eyes and lines in his face that weren’t there yesterday. He looks a touch gaunt, somehow, even though it’s only been a day without him eating. 

“Thank you, but that is not necessary.” 

“At least take some tea and bread,” she urges softly. “I’m sure your sister would worry over you if she knew you weren’t eating.” 

His expression pinches slightly, but he steps back to let her in, gesturing toward a table. She sets the tray atop it and pours some steaming hot tea from the kettle. For a time it seems as if Seteth will stand and only watch her, a distant expression on his face, but he finally takes a seat and reaches for the teacup. 

“Thank you,” he says again, obviously distracted by his own thoughts.

She just nods and settles into a chair, pouring herself some tea. The fragrant spices remind her of him now, but thankfully her mind isn’t currently in a place to be drawn in by it. 

“My students spent the afternoon gathering information. Claude and I managed to find a few leads that we’re going to follow up on tomorrow.” 

That gets his attention, and his eyes finally meet hers. “What have you discovered?” 

Byleth’s fingers curl around the teacup, a touch of anxiety winding through her. The truth is, they haven’t found much. Not yet, anyway. “It’s… speculation, so far. We need more information. But several people never reported to class yesterday, including Manuela. Edelgard told us she checked her quarters and found no sign of her.” 

“While I cannot say I approve of Manuela’s usual… methods, I do not think she is responsible for taking Flayn,” Seteth says, some of his usual prickliness returning. 

“Neither do I,” Byleth agrees, “but it could be related, which means perhaps Flayn wasn’t targeted specifically.” 

The strained chuckle he lets out at that isn’t one she cares for. It’s nothing like his laugh from this morning. There’s a touch of bitterness in it that chills her, but she decides to just press on.

“There were a few other names. Jeritza was supposed to spar with Catherine and never showed. I don’t know much about him, but I’m not ruling it out.” Her lips purse as she considers whether or not to relay the last piece of information to him, but she needs to be thorough. “A good number of students think Flayn may have just run away. I don’t personally believe it, but if there’s any possibility--” 

“Of course not. She is not so foolish, and I am not the controlling monster people here make me out to be.” 

There’s an edge to his voice that barely contains his emotion, and Byleth instantly regrets even saying anything. “I--” 

“While I appreciate your efforts, Professor, I do not see why it should be any concern of yours,” he says, a savage edge to his voice that cuts through her as much the words themselves. “You needn’t pay kindnesses our relationship does not demand.” 

The breath is forcefully slammed from her chest and Byleth reels. She never imagined words could hurt her so much, but it feels as if he’s taken his axe and rent a deep gash into her heart. She can’t even begin to form a response to that, completely blindsided by the meaning inherent in his response. 

_You needn’t pay kindnesses our relationship does not demand._

That says everything she needs to know, doesn’t it? About what he thinks of her, what he thinks of them. Questions she didn’t know she had until they were answered so definitively. 

Seteth notices her state and the absence of any response. The color drains from his face and he’s quick to fill that void with words. “I… I apologize. I did not mean that. I--” 

“Part of you meant it, or you wouldn’t have said it.” 

She hates how vulnerable she feels; how exposed. She’s shared a level of intimacy with this man that she’s not shown anyone else at the Academy, but this feels far more damning. What is the sense of even having emotions if this is the outcome? 

Byleth stands, unable to be near him and so unoccupied. She knows she should just leave him be. He’s hurting and lashing out and she doesn’t need to be here for it. But she can’t seem to make her legs move, and the words come whether she wants them to or not.

“Is that really what you think of me, Seteth? I just wanted to fuck you, so clearly I don’t care about your life or the life of your sister?” She reveals more in those two sentences than she would ever wish to, but at least she doesn’t do something as absurd as cry.

“Byleth…” 

He reaches out for her, but she steps away before he can touch her. Right now she can’t find it in herself to care if she’s being petty. 

“_I_ will find Flayn, not because of a kindness I somehow owe you, but because she’s as much a part of this place as any of the students, and it’s my job to look out for them.” 

_And because she’s important to you._

She doesn’t give him the last. That also feels petty, but it’s another piece of armor to protect her from his cutting tongue. The most effective, however, is just to leave. So Byleth does exactly that, under far worse terms than when she departed his quarters that morning. 

And she feels absolutely terrible, as if she’s lost something she never had in the first place; never wanted to have. But she doesn’t cry. If nothing else, at least she doesn’t cry. 

*** 

They find Flayn in the nick of time. 

It takes all of her students’ best efforts, and in the end, Lysithea is the one to save them all. She drives the Death Knight away, the man--if he even is that--gravely wounded, but still breathing as he withdraws. Her own students are wounded, as well, with Lorenz barely conscious by the end of it. Thanks to a frantic effort from Marianne, he’s stabilized, and she’s able to get him to the infirmary alongside Manuela. 

Byleth checks in later, only to find him expressing his gratitude to Marianne in the heavy-handed way only Lorenz could manage. For her part, Marianne doesn’t seem to mind as much as she would have months ago, which is… interesting. Byleth makes the decision to divert and check on Manuela, then the rest of her students. 

The mood has shifted dramatically. The stakes have become more real to them over time, but she can tell they’re all especially shaken after this. She is too, honestly, though she tamps it down to be the calm, cool-headed teacher they need. 

“We’ll focus our training,” she tells them. “No more learning for the sake of learning. I want everyone ready, in case this happens again.” 

She doesn’t know if it’s a comfort or not, but it gives them a goal. It gives her a goal, too, and something to obsess over that isn’t her own emotions. Ridiculous things to still feel. They found Flayn. She’s safe, and Byleth was positive she’d seen the sheen of tears in Seteth’s eyes when he’d embraced his sister for the first time. 

That should be enough. She shouldn’t still be hurt over his careless words. 

“This is your fault,” she murmurs under her breath as she walks the monastery grounds. 

Sothis appears for the first time in days, floating beside her. _Do not blame me for your emotions. I have nothing to do with them._

Byleth doesn’t know that she believes that. She never felt this way before Sothis. Her life was a matter of practicality. Secure the contract. Do the job. Keep herself and her father alive. Emotion never factored in to her decisions, and it certainly didn’t spiral her into a mood. 

_Perhaps you just have more to care about now_, Sothis muses. 

Perhaps. She thinks of her students, all of whom she cares for deeply. But she cares for her father, as well, and he was all she had for the longest time. 

_It is not petty to feel hurt, you know. The words were cruel, even if they were spoken from a place of fear. And clearly his opinion of you matters._

It does matter. When did she start to care what he thinks of her? What he feels? Has she always cared? 

“I don’t want to feel this way,” Byleth mumbles, dragging a hand over her face. 

_We do not always have a choice._

She lets out a frustrated sigh and skirts around a group of cats sunning themselves in the middle of the walkway. So much for becoming more tolerable by fulfilling her _carnal desires_. She wants more now, and she doesn’t even know _what_ it is that she wants. 

As she struggles, her feet carry her toward the pond. She’s always enjoyed working out her issues with a sword or a fishing pole in hand, and today is no exception. But instead of finding the quiet docks, she sees a number of people congregating around the water.

“What’s going on?” she asks, inclining her head toward Raphael.

“We’re catching fish for Flayn.” He grins at her and hefts a large fish from a bucket. “Check it out, Professor.” 

“It’s a competition,” Ashe clarifies. “Seteth is giving away a prize to the person who can catch the fish Flayn wants, but I think everyone just wants to see her happy. She went through so much.” 

She scans the edge of the pond and sees Flayn standing beside Ingrid, looking on excitedly as the young woman casts her line. 

Normally Byleth wouldn’t be inclined to interfere, but she’d planned to fish anyway, and her heart finds some satisfaction in the idea of not only saving Flayn, but also catching the fish she wants. So she decides to indulge her pettiness and gets a small bucket of the bait the others are using for the competition, then takes up position at the edge of the pier. 

It isn’t long before she has an audience, the green-haired girl coming to sit beside her, her legs dangling off the edge. She watches with obvious interest and a giddy sort of excitement that simmers beneath the surface every time there’s a tug at Byleth’s line. It’s adorable, honestly, and a soft smile settles onto Byleth’s lips as Flayn speaks to her about fish.

“My mother used to bake fish wrapped in grape leaves, with slices of lemon and butter. I have not had it in so long, but I have craved it to the point of distraction lately. It is… a comfort, I think.” There’s a pained note to her voice that cracks Byleth’s heart. “It reminds me of her.” 

“Is your mother…?” 

“She has been gone for some time,” she says quietly. 

Byleth falls silent, unable to imagine losing a parent. She’s never known her mother, but her father is all she’s had for so long. Logically she knows at some point she will have to face such a reality--most parents do not outlive their children--but the burdensome emotions that have taken over her mind of late want nothing to do with logic. 

“You remind me of her, as well,” Flayn says after a long moment, the words very nearly overshadowed by a splash as one of the students reels in a particularly active fish. “It is subtle, and… do not mistake me, I do not mean that I look upon you as a motherly figure…” 

The girl tries desperately to recant the implications, but Byleth reaches over and puts a reassuring hand atop hers, offering a genuine smile as she gently squeezes Flayn’s fingers.

“Considering how you turned out, I’m sure she was a wonderful person,” Byleth says. “I’m honored by the comparison.” 

Flayn smiles, a splash of pink settling across her cheeks before it disappears. She fidgets lightly, looking out over the pond as Byleth waits for the bobber to dip. With so many people fishing at once, she has to be even more patient than usual. 

“My brother is beside himself,” she says after a long pause, the words so quiet they’re obviously meant only for Byleth to hear.

“I’m sure he’s relieved to have you back safe and sound.” 

“He is, but he… told me he said things he should not have said to you. Hurtful things.” Flayn tugs on one of the bows at her sleeve. “He has done the same to me before, on occasion. He forgets himself sometimes, and…” 

“Flayn.” She props the fishing pole in one of the slats and turns to face the young woman. “It’s not your job to apologize for his actions. Besides, it’s… not a big deal. He was upset.” 

For some reason she feels particularly bad about lying to Flayn, but perhaps if she _says_ it’s not a big deal, she might suddenly pull herself out of this state. She doubts that, but it’s worth a try.

“He has taken on so much over the years,” Flayn says, a distant expression on her face. It’s moments like this where she looks well beyond her age. “I worry for him. I do not wish to see him push everyone away as he has done before. And I know he values you, Professor.” 

A blush colors Byleth’s cheeks and she’s grateful for the jiggle of the bobber. It’s only a tentative bite, but it gives her something to focus on as Flayn continues. 

“I will not meddle--he would hate to know I am even mentioning this much to you--but I hope you will hear him out.” 

“If it’s forgiveness he’s after, then there’s no need. I forgive him.” She says the words a little too quickly, but they’re not untrue. She _does_ forgive him, and she understands why he reacted as he did. 

Yet that does nothing to quiet the ache in her chest, and it doesn’t help that Flayn gives her a small, sad smile in response. She opens her mouth to say something and Byleth finds herself hanging on those words.

But her line jerks suddenly, the pole ripping from the pier. She’s barely able to grab ahold of it and reel the massive fish in, and the excitement is enough to completely distract Flayn. The fish she caught is apparently the one she wished for, and they both take a trip to the dining hall to bring it--and all the other fish--to the kitchens. 

All throughout, Byleth tries her best not to dwell on what that smile could mean, or to wonder if Seteth will seek her out. She tells herself she doesn’t want him to; that it’s better for her to distance herself anyway, and there’s no need to apologize. 

And as she watches Flayn’s eyes positively light up at the baked fish she’s presented, Byleth wonders when she got into the habit of lying to herself. She does want to hear it from him. She wants to know that he doesn't see her as someone who spent one night with him and wants nothing else from his life, despite the fact that she intended to be exactly that. She wants it so much that when she catches his gaze across the dining hall, she doesn't look away. And when he approaches, she holds her breath, hoping he won't hurt her again.

"Professor," he says, the word strained.

"Seteth." 

"I... must thank you. It is a relief to see Flayn so happy." 

Her expression softens somewhat as she looks at his sister, the young woman surrounded by friends, her fork making near constant trips to her mouth. 

But even with that, she cannot help being a touch guarded. "Despite what you may think, I'm glad for it. She deserves happiness after what she was put through." 

His jaw twitches, his expression betraying only the slightest hint that her words have had any effect on him at all. "I was hoping we could speak about that. Privately. There are... many things I need to say to you." 

Byleth draws in a steadying breath, though her expression remains impassive as she glances toward her students, many of whom are with Flayn now. "I have some time." 

She pushes away from the table and follows him out into the cool night air. Nerves wind through her, and as she waits for him to speak, she wonders when she became so very fragile. 

She blames Sothis, receiving only silence in return as she's left alone to sort through her own ridiculousness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for staying buckled up during this wild ride! Not a true "end" to this chapter, I know, but it was long enough already and I wanted to switch POV for the next part. 
> 
> Hey, if you liked that bit of heartbreak, why not check out queenowl's fic Words That Cannot Be Unsaid? It deals with the same situation (Seteth being an ass when Flayn goes missing) only with 1,000 times more angst! https://archiveofourown.org/works/20725697/chapters/49239212


	8. The Moonlit Confession

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Me: This one should definitely be shorter than the last chapter that had smut in it  
This chapter: 8,300 words
> 
> You know what, I ain't even bothered. 
> 
> I do have some readers who prefer less explicit stuff, so fair warning that this chapter does get pretty spicy, but not until about the 3/4 mark. You'll know when it's taking that turn, lol. 
> 
> Moonlight wyvern ride courtesy of Auron_Kale! The rest of it courtesy of my obsessive brain. Also, some canon divergence. Things are happening in different places and for different reasons than they do in game, but I hope you'll agree they fit the structure of this particular fic.

He had intended to spend as much time as possible with his daughter, but she--in no uncertain terms--had informed him that he was not to do so until he’d made things right with Byleth.

She knows him too well. Knows that he would be inclined to leave, for starters, had he not made promises to Lady Rhea. Promises he even now considers breaking, because while he holds great fondness for Seiros, Cethleann will always come first. 

She also knows that, in lieu of leaving entirely, he would choose to hover incessantly. Keep her under lock and key, devoting every waking moment to her protection. He would distance himself from Byleth and everyone else, writing off whatever exists between them at a loss. 

But his daughter is far too persuasive, knowing exactly how to get what she wants from him in the end. While he cannot bend on her most dangerous requests, in this he relents. In part due to the fact that he worries over just how insightful Flayn truly is, and in part because he owes it to Byleth, as well. 

The look in her eyes as he said those careless words… Goddess. When Lady Rhea first hired her at the Academy, Byleth betrayed few if any emotions. Over time, she’s grown more expressive. But he had never known precisely how she felt with such cutting clarity as he did in that moment. 

Much like a wound that was only permitted to feel pain once the flood of adrenaline was gone, Seteth did not truly feel the agony of that look and the words that followed until after Flayn was returned to him--by Byleth herself, no less. It should not have affected him so, and he is still uncertain just how he made the leap from inadvisable lust to… this in such a short time, but he is not in the habit of lying to himself. He is far too old for that.

His only hope, then, is to somehow make amends. He doubts Byleth will wish to indulge his foolish desire to continue this affair, but if he can win back her friendship, that will be enough.

“Where are we going?” she asks him cautiously.

“Not far, for now.” 

He has two tentative plans for this evening, both of which he has gone over obsessively in his mind, attempting to divine the possible outcomes. There is no hope of that, of course. His talents have always lain elsewhere. But it gives him some peace of mind, allowing him to consider the possible consequences of his actions.

Something he did _not_ do when last speaking to Byleth.

First, he must apologize. Thoughtfully, in a manner that cannot be misconstrued as simply brokering peace amongst colleagues. He has chosen to do so in a space that is more public than he would like, with the intent of conveying more than his words will allow. And if she accepts his apology, then… 

Then he will tell her why he is so protective of Flayn. Not the entire truth. He cannot share their true names--it is far too dangerous. But he can reveal one secret, even if his heart threatens to beat out of his chest just thinking about it. 

That will happen away from the monastery grounds, though. Only Byleth needs to hear that truth. 

He brings her to the open-air gardens that sprawl through the center of the monastery, where students often take tea during the daylight hours. He pulls out a chair for her, and he swears he sees the barest hint of a blush on her cheeks. Encouraging, if it is not a trick of the light. 

Settling into the chair opposite her, Seteth wishes he had considered tea for this, if only to have something to occupy his hands. “I have no right to ask it of you, but I hope you will listen until I am finished.” 

She watches him warily, giving the slightest nod that manifests in a tilt of her chin. 

“What I said to you was insensitive and cruel, and I have no excuse for behaving in such a way,” he admits, grateful Byleth does not interrupt. “I can rationalize it, and for a time, I did. Flayn was missing. I was not in any state of mind to conduct myself tactfully. But that does not excuse it, and I will not hide behind my worry for Flayn. It is unfair to you, as well as to her.” 

He sees Byleth’s fingers curl against the table in a nervous twitch. Yes. He should have brought tea. 

“You were right when you said there was truth to my words.” Seteth does not miss the flash of hurt in her ocean blue eyes. “But that is… my insecurity to overcome, and I should never have assumed such a thing. I do not think you uncaring, Byleth, but I would not request more of you than you are willing to give. That includes forgiveness.” 

He is a coward to bury his inconvenient feelings in such a way, but what else is there to do? He cannot imagine a world where she would want more from him. Especially now. She has plenty of prospects, and their tryst was merely a fulfillment of the hunt. The scratching of an itch for her and nothing more, as it should have been for him. 

She--

_You are underestimating her again, you old fool._

Seteth forcibly ceases such thoughts, cold shame washing over him. 

“You already have my forgiveness,” she says, her tone utterly neutral. “I wouldn’t fault a wounded animal for biting me when I try to help it, and so I can’t fault you.” 

“I should hope to be better than an animal,” Seteth mumbles before quickly composing himself. “But yes, I suppose the comparison is apt. It… does not make the bite any less painful, however, nor does it feel like any less of a betrayal.” 

“You’re right about that,” she says softly. “I don’t _want_ to be hurt by it. It feels… childish.” The corner of her lips twitch just so. “But I was. I am. I accept your apology, Seteth, and I believe it’s heartfelt. But I still feel like I’m just… floundering uselessly. Thrashing about in the tides.” 

_You are not alone in that._ He knows he should say the words aloud, but perhaps she does not mean what he wants desperately to believe she means. 

“There is more I need to say, but I cannot do it here.” His gaze finds a group of students walking through the nearby halls. “I do not know if I can make it up to you, but I would like to try. If you will allow it.” 

“Seteth. Are you asking my permission to grovel?” There is a promising glint in her eyes. 

“I am asking exactly that.” 

“Hm.” A single hummed note, her lips curving into a smile. “I’ll allow it.” 

“Come with me, then,” he says, and leads her across the monastery grounds to the southernmost tower that looks out over the cliff side. 

The winding stairs offer a familiar climb, but he periodically pauses at each landing to give Byleth a chance to catch her breath, should she need it. She never does, so the two of them make it to the top with little trouble, the familiar sounds and smells a strange comfort to him. 

“I’m not sure I would have chosen a rookery for groveling,” Byleth muses, looking over the roosting wyverns. “Unless they’re good at judging the quality of an apology?” 

“I suspect they would be,” Seteth says, “but what I have in mind is a touch more practical.” 

At the sound of his voice, an excited trilling echoes through the rookery, waking several of the wyverns. Seteth approaches the door of an octagonal enclosure and undoes the latch, glancing back to Byleth whose gaze is focused, wide-eyed, on the many creatures roosting overhead. 

“I’ve never been in here before. It’s…” 

“Tolerance is acquired, I think,” he says with a small smile. “You may wish to wait out here. Tethra does not have especially good awareness of the space he takes up.” 

Byleth makes no protest against this, and it seems a wise choice. As soon as Seteth sets foot within the enclosure, Tethra swoops down, clawed feet landing with a ground-shaking force, his wings spread far enough that Seteth is forced to duck. 

“I see you have realized someone else is here,” he says, stroking the wyvern’s snout. “Show-off.” 

“He’s beautiful,” Byleth says from outside the cage, and Tethra preens, the scale ridges along his neck expanding in obvious display.

The compliment is one Seteth takes to heart, as well. While it is true he has a connection with Tethra, he chose such a wyvern because the patterning and coloration are similar to what his own had once been. A touch vain, perhaps, yet it feels more like a comfort to him than anything else. So for Byleth to acknowledge the wyvern’s beauty feels as if she is paying special acknowledgment to his form, as well, even if she has no idea it even existed. 

For his part, Tethra quirks his head curiously, making a cooing sound as the frills on his head unfurl. 

“And well aware of it,” Seteth says with a fond smile. “Behave yourself, if you please. Treat her just as you would treat Flayn.” 

Holding open the gate, he waits as the bipedal creature makes its way into the unenclosed section of the rookery. Byleth’s eyes widen once more, but she holds her ground, tentatively lifting a hand to the beast. Tethra lets out a squawk of delight and bumps his snout against her palm, prompting a charmed laugh from Byleth that is quite possibly the most endearing sound he has ever heard from her. 

Seteth reaches for the wyvern’s tack, hefting the heavy leather saddle and fastening it astride the wyvern who crouches down obediently. He is diligent in his task, meticulously checking everything to ensure it is secure before he even thinks to invite her atop the beast. Hefting himself into the saddle, he looks down to find her face a touch paler than it should be.

“Oh. You… want to fly somewhere. That’s…” 

“Is that a problem?” Seteth asks, his brow furrowing. 

Perhaps he has misjudged. Perhaps she is willing to speak with him, but only here, where she can easily escape him should he say anything she does not like.

“No…” The single word is so unconvincing that Seteth almost starts to dismount. “I’ll probably need your help getting up there.” 

He nearly asks her if she is sure, but the look she gives assures him that would be a bad idea. This is stubbornness, plain and simple, and Seteth has no choice but to indulge it. He offers his hand, an electric jolt winding its way up his arm as she takes it. With one tug, he helps her reach high enough that she is able to find purchase and pull herself the rest of the way. 

She settles behind him and he tries not to focus on the warmth of her body so close to his. “Are you ready?” 

“Let’s say that I am,” Byleth murmurs, a fine tremble making its way through her voice. 

As Tethra moves to the perch within the tower, Seteth suddenly understands why. She wraps her arms so tightly around him he can scarcely breathe for a moment, somehow managing to tighten her grip even more when the wyvern stands at its full height, beats its powerful wings, and lifts into the air.

“Byleth, are you… afraid of heights?” he asks incredulously. 

He has seen her do so many things. It never occurred to him that she might have such a fear.

“No.” The sound is almost completely muffled against his shoulder as she buries her face there. “I just prefer the ground.” 

“You should have said something.” He lets out an exasperated sigh, guiding Tethra lower than he normally would. “It will not take long. Hold on to me in the meantime. I will not let you fall.” 

She does just that, practically crushing his ribs. But he cannot say he minds too much. Though it is not the scenario he might have hoped for, at least she is touching him again. And she somehow trusts him enough to know that he will let no harm come to her, despite the fact that she is afraid. That thought alone is enough to make this endeavor more than worth it. 

As promised, the trip does not take terribly long. To him, at least. To Byleth it likely feels like an eternity, and he wishes there was more he could do. At one point he considers gently stroking her arm, but the gesture feels too familiar. He no longer has the right to touch her in such a way, if he ever had it to begin with.

“Easy, Tethra,” he says, a guiding hand upon the wyvern’s neck as he descends. 

The gusting of wings eases, that deafening sound making way for those more typical of the night. The chirping of crickets, the hoot of an owl, and--at least in this location--the distant crash of waves. The last is a comfort to him, and Seteth closes his eyes, drawing in the scent of the sea. 

“We are grounded, for a time,” he assures her.

Byleth lets up on her vice-like grip and he dismounts first so that he can assist her down. Even with Tethra lowering himself as much as possible, he is still a fair distance from the ground and Byleth is forced to rely on him almost entirely. He takes her into his arms, the too-familiar feeling of her body against his spreading a flush through him. Once her feet touch the ground, he loosens his grip, but she does not pull away immediately. 

Seteth’s heart hammers in his chest. Even now, she still makes him feel so very… aware of himself. No doubt she is merely trying to get her bearings, but it is as if their night together has imprinted upon his flesh as well as his mind. 

He steps back and clears his throat, grateful the darkness likely conceals any lingering flush in his cheeks. After a moment, Byleth is wholly unconcerned with him. She looks around, her body held taut. 

_She still has the instincts of a mercenary_, he thinks, and for some reason feels mildly reassured by that fact.

“Where are we?” 

“Just above Tideseeker Cove. It is not especially well known, but this is the point nearest to Garreg Mach where the land meets the sea. I often come here to clear my mind. It is peaceful to me, and it… reminds me of someone who was very dear to me.” 

Her gaze casts back toward him, a softness in it that eases something inside of him. He does not know what she wishes to convey with such a look, but he suspects it has succeeded. 

As he watches, Byleth walks carefully through a field of dandelions, watching her footing as she approaches the edge of the cliff. Anxiety winds through him, a fear that she will experience some manner of vertigo and fall, but she does not get close enough to present any danger. Instead she looks out over the sea, then up at the sky, an expression of wonder on her face.

“Look at the stars…” There is sheer awe in her voice, and Seteth cannot help being drawn in by it. “This is what I miss most about being on the road. You can’t see the stars from Garreg Mach--it’s too bright.” 

More than anything he feels the strongest urge to walk up behind her, slip his arms about her waist, and enjoy the starscape right alongside her. He settles for watching her, instead, and it is not so poor a substitute. 

He is so engrossed, so enamored that he scarcely notices when her attention first shifts to him, her expression turning guarded. “You brought me to this place to say something… I admit you have me worried about what that something might be.” 

“It is nothing to worry over,” he assures her. “Would you sit with me?” When she nods her assent, he retrieves a rolled blanket that is tied at Tethra’s flank, the wyvern settling quietly. Seteth pats him, addressing the beast directly. “You may go and hunt if you wish. I will call you when we need you.” 

Tethra gives a grateful trill in answer, lifting into the air. The force of his wings gusts downward, Byleth’s coat billowing around her, the dandelions losing countless seeds. Seteth merely spreads the blanket and waits for her to sit before joining her, keeping a respectful distance between them. 

“Part of the reason I spoke so carelessly is because I was angry with myself. Flayn sleeps one room away from me, I have made it my mission to know where she is at all times and to protect her no matter what. The fact that she was even taken to begin with means I failed her,” he admits, his voice pained.

“Because you were distracted.” Byleth’s expression is unreadable, but perhaps that is for the best.

“Yes,” he admits softly. There is no point in lying to her. “But understand I do not regret the decisions I made. Logically, I know that if someone was determined to take Flayn, they would find a way. And that thought is… terrifying.” 

Byleth looks down, seeming to process his words. “You mentioned she has special blood.” 

“She bears a major crest of Cethleann.” Perhaps he should not reveal even that detail, but a major crest is not as damning as some pieces of evidence. “Major crests of all types are rare enough, but that one is especially rare.” 

“Then she’s… a descendant of Saint Cethleann? I’m not exactly sure how the crests work.” 

He swallows thickly, but manages to keep his gaze on her. “Cethleann’s blood flows through her veins, yes.” 

Seteth cannot afford to give her a direct truth, but he finds he cannot outright lie to her, either. There is a chance she will discover the link--especially once he tells her what he wishes to tell her. Deep down, though, he knows Byleth is not a threat to his daughter.

_Goddess. When did that happen?_

“But that would put you in danger as well.” She scrutinizes him and he cannot tell if it is suspicion or concern in her regard. 

“It would, were our bloodlines the same.” The only answer he receives is the curious lift of Byleth’s brows prompting him to continue. “The real reason I am so very protective of Flayn is because she is not my sister. She is… my daughter.” 

Her brows shoot nearly to her hairline, a gesture that might be comical were the situation not so dire. As it is, Seteth studies her expression, the paranoia that has carved out a place in his soul searching for any sign she might betray this information. 

“That’s…” He sees her process it in real time, her expression growing calmer. “Actually not as surprising as you might think. Now that I look at the entirety of it, it’s easy to see.” 

She is right, of course, but that does nothing to assuage the sudden shock of fear that twists within him. The softening of Byleth’s expression, however…

“My only reference for parenting is my own father, but… you’ve done a good job with her. She’s incredibly kind and very bright.”

For several moments, Seteth completely forgets how to speak. While he might be able to dismiss the praise for his own skill as a father--something that seems undeserved, given all the ways in which Cethleann has suffered--he cannot so easily dismiss the acknowledgment of his daughter’s best traits. Anyone can see them, of course, but the fact that Byleth does is… well, it means something else. Something more.

“I… ah, that is to say…” He can feel the very tips of his ears turning pink. How ridiculous. 

Byleth laughs, a full and throaty sound. “Just accept the compliment, Seteth.” 

“Is that a condition for a successful grovel?” he asks, finally managing to recover. 

“It is.” 

He lets out a put-upon sigh. “Very well. Then I accept.” 

The smile she gives him is radiant, and he swears his heart misses a beat. It is something he has not experienced since courting his late wife and that knowledge is as unsettling as it is intriguing. It also prompts a new surge of guilt within him, bringing about the realization that he wishes he could tell her everything. 

“There are… other things. Things about myself and Flayn that I cannot tell you, even if I wished to. I hope you understand it is not a lack of trust, simply a desire to protect my daughter.” 

“I do understand.” The response is not automatic, but it comes quickly enough that it is obvious there’s no hesitation. “I don’t want to put either of you in danger. The fact that you entrusted me with one of your secrets is already more than I would have expected, so thank you.” 

He dips his head in acknowledgment, though not before he catches the sly glint in Byleth’s eyes. 

“You’re not the only one with secrets, you know.” There is a challenge in her voice; a teasing lilt that begs him to question her.

“I do not doubt that at all. Perhaps you will tell me that Captain Jeralt is actually your brother?”

The volume of her laughter seems to surprise even Byleth. She covers her mouth with her hand and Seteth has to resist the strong urge to pull it away so he can hear such unrestrained joy. 

“Seteth. Did you just make a joke?” She can barely contain her amused smile, nor the way her eyes practically sparkle. 

“I _am_ capable of humor, you know.” 

Byleth muffles her laughter behind her hand, and everything about her is utterly captivating. Her laughter tapers off and she meets his eyes, a soft blush stealing across her features. No doubt she has noticed the single-minded intensity of his regard, but he cannot find it in himself to be ashamed. 

“Actually, I… there is something.” Her hand returns to her lap, wringing with the other. “It’s probably going to sound crazy, but…” 

Seteth reaches out and takes one of her hands, his fingers curling around it. “If it is something you wish to tell me, then I am certain it is important, and far from crazy.” 

He does not allow himself to speculate as to _what_ she might tell him. Only pain awaits down such a road. 

She gives him a soft smile and he tries not to fixate on the fact that her thumb is stroking over his hand. “Earlier this year I started having dreams. A young woman appearing to me. When I first met Claude and the others, she… made herself known outside of dreams. She’s been with me ever since. Offering her own thoughts independent of mine, but also sharing in my experiences.” 

She is right. It would sound strange to another human. But Seteth has personally known far stranger occurrences, and so he simply listens. 

“She’s told me her name, but I didn’t realize who she was until Lady Rhea said it.” Her lips purse and she looks up into his eyes. “...Sothis. It’s Sothis.” 

His lips are parted, mouth all but hanging open as he looks at her, trying to gauge whether or not she is joking. He knows she is not, but she cannot possibly mean what she is implying. 

“You… host the progenitor god?” 

“Like I said: Crazy. I’d believe it was just a coincidence, but she… _I_ can do things I shouldn’t be able to do now, because of her. I can see the probable outcome of a battle before myself or my students even engage the enemy. And should something not go as planned, I can return to the moment before it went wrong and fix my mistake.” 

Lady Rhea must have known about this. He’s always been aware there was something she was keeping from him, but this is… This is more than he knows how to process. If Byleth is essentially a vessel for Sothis, what does that mean for Byleth herself? _Is_ there a Byleth?

“I know what it sounds like. I’m not even sure why I felt compelled to tell you other than the fact that I needed to tell _someone_. Not even my father knows about this. He just thinks she’s a girl I’ve seen in my dreams, and I--” 

“Byleth.” 

He speaks her name softly, a realization coming over him that is as true as any he has ever had. The nervous, self-conscious, confused woman who sits before him is not simply a vessel for a goddess. No matter what she might be now, she was at one time human, and he finds it difficult to believe she has not been in control of her own actions. 

“I believe you,” he says, giving her hand a gentle squeeze. 

The fact that he can feel her trembling slightly makes him wish he had any right to draw her into his arms. But he does not, and so he refrains, settling for the closeness of their joined hands and what he can communicate there. 

“Have you spoken to Lady Rhea about this? She may be able to help you better understand the implications,” he says, all the while knowing Rhea will only reveal what she feels comfortable revealing.

Which may not be anything of consequence. 

Byleth shakes her head. “No, and I don’t plan on it. I’m not exactly looking for advice. It’s… served me well enough so far.” 

“Understood,” he says softly. “She will hear nothing of it from me.” Her brows lift in a way that prompts Seteth to explain himself. “It is true that I am inclined to tell Lady Rhea most things of import, but so long as this secret is not endangering anyone, then it is yours to tell when you wish. I would recommend it, but I will not force your hand.” 

“Thank you.” She says the words so quietly they almost seem spoken to herself. “That’s… not the response I was expecting.” 

“And yet you still told me?” 

The corner of her lips tug into a smirk. “If you decided you absolutely _had_ to tell Lady Rhea, I would have just gone back to the moment before I told you anything at all.” 

He honestly cannot tell if she is joking. Surely she would not… That would be… “Have you used it before? With me?” 

She lets out a breathy laugh and gives his hand a squeeze. “Relax. I’ve only ever used it on the battlefield. Though... I was tempted recently. I didn’t consider it until after I’d already left, but...” Her cheeks flush bafflingly pink. “I… might have thought once or twice about rolling time back to the moment I showed up at your quarters.” 

His breath comes in strained bursts, and though he _knows_ what she means, he cannot help but ask, “To… undo what was done?” The look she gives him is mildly threatening. He deserves it. “No. No, I know that is not what you mean. I…” 

“If I thought that was the only way I could ever have you again, I might have done it,” she admits, looking at him with cautious desire. 

Seteth’s mouth is suddenly very, very dry. He has already spent the night with her. He knows her in the most intimate sense. How is it still possible for her to make him feel as if he is so far out of his depth? 

“You mentioned a need to… ‘get it out of our system,’ is I believe how you phrased it?” 

She bites her lip, her hand shifting in his so that her fingers can run along the tender flesh of his inner wrist. He shivers. “And did that work for you? Because it didn’t for me.” 

“It… did not work for me, either,” he admits, a shock of heat blazing its way through his body. 

He has spent much of his time preoccupied with Flayn’s disappearance, but before he was aware she was missing--and since she has been back--he could not help replaying the events of that night in his mind. He was well aware of the fact that he would not be satisfied with one time. He became aware of that fact in the midst of it, when she brought out a side of him that has lain dormant for so long. 

Byleth presses up to her knees and eases toward him. It might not be the most elegant method of movement, but as the moonlight bathes her in warm light, it hardly matters. “We are alone now. No pressing obligations, no one here to interrupt.” 

He lets out a gust of breath. They truly are alone. Even Tethra will not return until Seteth calls him. 

She straddles his legs, one knee on either side of him as her hands glide over the planes of his chest. There is a question in her eyes; uncertainty she needn’t possess. He wants nothing more than to eradicate it, but she speaks before he has the chance.

“I… could be reading things wrong. In which case I really _will_ turn back time and we can pretend I’m not making a complete a--” 

He does not give her the chance to finish, his mouth claiming hers in a hungry, desperate kiss. Her fingers bunch in his robes and she matches his fervor in an instant, explosive response. It feels as though they have never done this before--as if they are both still so pent up from weeks of tension--but Seteth hardly intends to complain. His arms come around her, one hand burying in her hair while the other presses to her back, holding her closer to him. 

Seteth groans as her tongue sweeps into his mouth, seeking out his own. Finesse is hardly required, raw passion more than making up for it as they kiss until breathless. 

“I do forgive you,” she says, her hands coming up to frame his face in a gesture that is achingly tender. “But if you really do want to make it up to me…” 

He lets out a throaty chuckle, his fingers threading through her hair. “Am I to appease a goddess, then?” 

There is a glint in her eyes--an idea taking form--and Seteth wonders just what he has awakened. He gets some inclination when she moves her hands back to his chest and forcibly pushes him to the ground, her knees settling on either side of his hips. She grabs one of his wrists, then the other, pinning his arms over his head. 

Then she leans down, her body nearly flush with his, lips so near he can feel her breath across his own as she speaks. “Close enough.” 

He understands this game. In some ways, it is a reversal of the one they engaged in last time. While Seteth is used to occupying a more assertive role, he finds he does not mind this idea as much as he thought he might. The sight of Byleth above him--her powerful muscles flexing as she keeps herself precisely where she wants to be--is intoxicating, and he cannot help but imagine her doing the same once she is divested of those tedious garments. 

“I am at your command, then,” he tells her, not missing the shiver that races up her spine. “Use me well, for I am not inclined to offer such a thing freely.” 

“Oh I intend to,” she murmurs against him, her lips caressing his, but not giving in to the inevitable kiss. 

She diverts to his jaw and he makes the intentional mistake of following, chasing her mouth with his own, eager to see what she will do. Her hand is swift, poised at his throat, just beneath his chin. Her fingers apply just enough pressure to keep him where she wants him

Her lips glide along the curve of his jaw, the light scrape of her teeth making him shudder. She uses her free hand to brush back his hair, and for the longest moment, Seteth is far too distracted to realize her intent. By the time he notices where her fingers are headed, she touches the curve of his ear and he draws in a sharp, sudden intake of breath. 

There is no chance of her not noticing the slight point to them. At a distance, he could potentially construct some plausible story. But this close, with her finger moving curiously over that curve, it is impossible to cover the truth. Her hand stills, her own breath drawn in a soft gasp. Seteth ventures a glance up at her and finds her fairly riveted before she finally meets his eyes.

“One of the things you can’t tell me yet?” is all she says, and Seteth nods. 

There is no bitterness in her voice; not even a note of disappointment. Perhaps it is just in Byleth’s nature to mask such things, but she seems genuinely accepting of that fact. She asks him no further questions and returns her attentions to his body, the pad of her finger tracing over the sensitive shell of his ear. 

Leaning close, she blows lightly and his entire body seizes in anticipation, his muscles going taut. There is something even more intimate about this--no one has touched him in this way for years--and when her tongue traces the edge of the lobe, it is all he can do not to voice his pleasure. 

“Keep your secrets,” she murmurs into his ear. “I’d say this one serves me well.” 

Reaching down, she undoes the cloth belt of his robes. He wants so badly to touch her, but that is not a part of this game. He will push the boundaries when he is feeling bolder--not now, when a fine tremble shakes through him, a shot of lust surging to the forefront of his mind. 

The sudden pressure of her teeth is enough to draw a groan from him, the sound catching in his throat as she laves over the mark she’s left with her tongue. Goddess, she could spend the next half hour doing only this and he would be completely at her mercy, helpless to put up any manner of defense. It should frighten him, but Seteth simply… embraces it. Embraces the opportunity to let go of his burdens and place his trust in someone else. 

Byleth does not disappoint. She moves on from his ear for the time being, working his robe open with one hand. Both palms slide over his abdomen and chest, nails scratching lightly through the dusting of hair. Easing back somewhat, she undoes the lower fastenings of his robe and slides it over his shoulders, giving him a nod to lift up enough so that she can remove it entirely. This high up, the air is cooler and his body responds to both that and her regard, his nipples firming, his cock having already reached such a state far earlier. 

She does not touch him right away. Instead she tugs at the laces of his breeches, working through that troublesome garment as swiftly as she did the robe. Again Seteth complies, lifting up so she can tug the clothing off, leaving him in linen smallclothes that leave next to nothing to the imagination. 

“I’m impressed by your restraint,” she practically purrs. “You’ll need that soon enough.” 

He has no doubt. Already it is difficult to just watch her; to let her undress him without being able to see, touch, and taste her in return. He is eager to memorize every inch of her; map out her body with lips and tongue. But he has fully consented to winning back her trust in whatever way she deems necessary, and so he shall. 

With a soft hum, Byleth indulges in precisely what he would like to be doing. He can offer little in the way of complaint as she familiarizes herself with his body, though. Lips, tongue, teeth, and fingers skim over his neck, chest, abdomen, then lower to his thighs and even calves. He finds himself shaking as she drags her teeth over his hip bone, the restraint required to simply enjoy and endure nearly too much. 

“You do everyone such a disservice,” she murmurs, her fingers tracing the definition in his torso, “hiding all of this beneath those robes.” 

“I find it difficult to believe you do not enjoy keeping such knowledge to yourself,” he says, the words strained; breathless. 

The grin she gives him is positively wicked, and he gasps when her tongue curls out to tease one of his nipples. “True. Right now you are mine, and that is…” 

Whatever role she is inhabiting slips, and for the briefest moment Seteth catches a glimpse of what she truly thinks. Her expression is awestruck, her gaze almost reverent as she looks upon him, a feeling echoed in the slow caress of her fingers. Warmth spreads through him, and this time he cannot attribute it to lust alone. That one look is… everything. Even if it is brief, it vindicates some of his deepest desires--those which will remain unspoken and unacknowledged. Because ultimately, Byleth’s slip only lasts a fraction of a moment. 

“Very fortunate for me,” she finally concludes, a touch more breathless than she was before. 

She pushes up to her knees once more, and Seteth watches in his own state of awe as she unlaces her bodice. Her fingers are shaking--just the tiniest hint of it--but he resists the urge to assist. The bodice is undone with little trouble, regardless, and the binding beneath it follows, freeing her breasts. Such lovely, full breasts that he aches to take in hand, the nipples already hardened to peaks.

Somehow he manages to resist, but his patience is not infinite. As she stands, unlacing her shorts and pushing them down--along with her underclothes--Seteth’s fingers twitch. He curls them in the blanket, but that only helps so much as she lowers herself to straddle him once more. She has not made any move to take off her stockings--only her boots--and that is what finally breaks him. The urge to trace over the sheer, embroidered fabric. The dragons again. How very appropriate. 

Unable to stop himself, Seteth lifts a hand not to her breasts or the apex of her thighs, but to her calf. He traces over the curve of it, fingers stroking along the ridged back of one of the dragons. They are not terrible representations. With a bit of tweaking, they might even pass as earth dragons. 

Byleth lets out a breathy laugh, looking down at him from beneath her bangs. “The stockings are what breaks you? Really?” 

“They are what broke me initially, so it should come as no surprise,” he says, reveling in the half-lidded look she gives him, his body set ablaze by it.

For a moment he thinks she might set aside the game. She seems to seriously consider it, but then she grips his wrist, her fingers pressing into the skin, and pins it at his side. 

“I will let you know when you’re allowed to touch me,” she says, a fine tremble to her voice he notices but does not comment on. “But since you decided to act out of turn…” 

Delicious anticipation winds through him as her hand moves over his abdomen and further down. There is no exploration in her touch this time. She takes him in hand through the thin fabric of his smallclothes and strokes with intent. Seteth bites back a groan and presses against the ground to keep his hips from rising of their own accord. 

Deft fingers undo the laces and her hand wraps around his cock in full, the flesh responding instantly to her touch with a twitch he cannot control. She watches him as she continues, an intensity in her eyes that makes it impossible for him to look away. Even when she finds a particularly sensitive spot and he has to close his eyes, it is not long before he opens them again to meet that penetrating gaze. 

“What should I do with you, I wonder,” she muses aloud, the tip of her finger circling the head of his cock. 

She settles beside him in such a way that he could easily turn to his side, grip her hips, and bury his face between her thighs. It is plain to see she is taunting him, her legs spread just so, her sex glistening in the moonlight. He stifles a groan, the sound turning to a moan as she takes him into her mouth. Her lips are soft around him, the heat of her mouth such a blissful feeling. While he thought she might have teased him to the point of madness, she is firm and thorough, tongue seeking out what she knows makes him gasp, his fingers digging into the earth beneath him. 

For several moments she seems to utterly lose herself in giving him pleasure, her own sounds muffled around him. Seteth is forced to bite down on a whimper as her hand slips between her thighs, her fingers seeking out her clit immediately, but he does not think she is doing it simply to torture him. 

As tension builds within him, though, he begins to reevaluate that opinion. Byleth draws back so that her lips are just barely pressed to the head of his cock. She works his insistent flesh with one hand, paying him special mind with her talented tongue. It is too much, and his hips buck, the action beyond his control.

“Byleth… I…” 

It is as much of a warning as he can give in the moment, but she continues, maintaining a steady rhythm that is positively maddening in the best ways. His body goes taut, release inevitable, and then…

She stops, pulling completely away from him. It is a sudden shock to his body, so much so that Seteth can form neither thoughts nor words for the longest time. Through it all, she merely watches him, her finger tracing firm circles over her own sex. There is some mischief in her eyes, but she deliberately searches his, as if silently asking his permission to continue with this game. 

“I see you were... not exaggerating,” he pants out, his body still unbelievably tense, “when you said restraint would be… necessary.” 

“I rarely exaggerate, Seteth.” 

“Is this torture part of my penance, then?” He turns his head to the side, utterly captivated as he watches her touch herself. 

“Not everything is about you, you know.” Her lips curve into a sly grin. “But yes.” 

Now that she is very much aware she has an audience, she makes the most of it. Two fingers trace that needy bud in a tentative touch before she is more firm. The softest moan falls from her lips and Seteth swallows hard. 

She might very well kill him with this. After all this time, he will be done in by the actions of one woman who is well aware of how much he desires her. A woman who seems to feel little to no modesty as she slips one finger inside herself, then a second. 

“Goddess,” he breathes, his gaze riveted as her fingers drive in and out. “I cannot withstand this…” 

“Tell me what you want,” she prompts, the husky edge of her voice setting him ablaze. 

“You,” he manages, his own voice hoarse. “I want you. Please.” 

Something in her eyes reflects his own need, and again he does not miss the shiver that overcomes her. She withdraws her fingers, lifting them to his mouth where she traces his lip. Seteth’s tongue curls around them and he sucks greedily, her eyes darkening with pure lust as he does so. 

She adjusts her position, hooking her fingers into his smallclothes and tugging them down so that he is bared completely. He holds his breath as she straddles his hips once more, her fingers wrapping firmly around the base of his cock as she slowly lowers herself. 

He waits for that blissful moment, every muscle tense. But she does not sink down upon him. Instead she moves her hips in such a way that the head of his cock slides along her slick folds. A soft moan falls from her lips as she grinds against him, and as maddening as this is, watching her is something he will not soon forget. She is stunning, her skin flushed, eyes closed, lips parted as she takes her pleasure from him. Her thighs shake with the restraint she exercises, and it is all he can do not to move his own hips. 

“Must I beg again?” he asks, the words coming out in little more than a whisper. 

“You’ll just have to be more specific.” Her own words are breathy, her body still moving against his. “What do you want from me, Seteth?” 

“I…” He groans as she sinks down just enough, the head of his cock sliding into her. “This. I need this. I need to be inside you. Please, Byleth.” 

She does not answer him with words. Instead she sinks fully down upon him so that their bodies are flush, his cock buried inside of her. He moans, the sound muffled against her mouth as she kisses him with unrestrained passion. She has been holding back as well, it seems, but no longer. 

His hands move to grip her hips and she does not stop him, moving in such a way that she does not pull away from him, her hips merely gyrating, grinding against him. He meets her movements with his own, the game abandoned in favor of very necessary mutual satisfaction. It will not take long at all, he suspects, as he can feel that tension building within him once more.

Indeed, Byleth’s motions quickly become more frantic and erratic. She struggles to keep kissing him and eventually just buries her face against his neck, her breath hot on his skin. His name is a whispered benediction from her lips, and he has never heard anything sweeter. When release finally hits her, her body clenching around his, the moan she lets out is completely unguarded, unrestricted by the danger of someone overhearing. 

Seteth feels undone just from that, his own climax so very close. But she is not finished with him quite yet. The action is swift, her teeth sinking into the junction where his shoulder meets his neck. She marks him just as he marked her, and that sudden show of possession is enough to send him hurtling uncontrollably over the edge. He lets out a loud cry of pleasure, her name gracing his lips in return, his release just as violently blissful as last time. 

So much so that it takes him several long moments to notice he took complete leave of his senses. He is still inside her, a realization that sends a wash of cold dread through him. 

“Goddess, I intended to… we shouldn’t…” He stammers, his embarrassment at being so thoroughly distracted spiraling into a panic. 

“It’s okay,” she says, taking his face in hers. Her voice is soothing, a soft smile on her lips. “I’ve taken tea for years. Every morning. The risk is minimal.” 

That is a relief, yet it does not make up for his actions. “Even still, I should have--” 

“Seteth.” She brushes her lips so softly over his. “You’re allowed to lose control every now and again. The world won’t end.” 

He looks up at her, at what his loss of control has gotten him, and smiles. “No, I suppose it will not.” 

When she finally breaks the connection between them, he feels so very hollow. They cannot always be entangled thusly. Even tonight, they will have to return to the monastery sooner rather than later. Byleth does not seem to be in any hurry, though. She settles against him, her fingers tracing lazy circles over his chest, her leg draped across his. His arms slip around her, his heart twisting in his chest as he enjoys the quiet intimacy of the moment. 

“Will we always have to steal away whenever we want time together?” 

She does not try to be coy about it, and for that he is grateful. There is no chance of this ending now. Perhaps it should. Perhaps they should leave well enough alone before they become too invested. But even Seteth is having a more difficult time convincing himself of the wisdom in that.

“So long as we are discrete and it does not interfere with our work, I do not think it will be a problem.” 

And he is certain he would not be able to stay away from her if he tried. 

He feels her smile against him before she curls herself even closer. This _is_ dangerous, but for an entirely different reason. Because now he knows she is not just human. She is something else, and the existence of the progenitor god likely means her lifespan could rival his own. 

He does not have to let her go, and that realization fills him with more joy and comfort than he is ready to fully acknowledge. But the future is entirely within her control: Could she ever want more from him than this? 

Seteth is too afraid to hope for it; too afraid to admit he is falling for this woman. So he holds her tightly while he still can, trying desperately to avoid wishing for more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel super weird putting this after a smut chapter, lol. But if anyone wants to connect, you can find me on Twitter @daddaysofsummer. (I finally made a fandom-only account, hurray.) I'll be posting snippets and other stuff there.


	9. The Scheming Quartet

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This four-person POV, 9,000 word behemoth of a chapter was an indulgent labor of love just for you guys. <3 Something to tide you over during the inevitable sea of angst we're about to hit. I hope you enjoy!

The ball is only a week away, and still Byleth doesn’t fully _get_ it. That fact isn’t something she intends to ever voice to her fawns. It makes them happy, and even if they’ve spent much of the month distracted, she isn’t inclined to take that away from them. They deserve levity after how many life or death combat scenarios they’ve found themselves caught up in. 

But Byleth’s idea of levity is spending the day with her feet dangling off the docks, a fishing pole in her hand. It’s walking through the woods, breathing in the scents of fall. It’s another midnight trip to Tideseeker Cove, to gaze up at and then completely ignore the stars. It’s definitely not a stuffy room full of teenagers looking to push boundaries.

Seteth is rubbing off on her, apparently, and that’s another reason she says absolutely nothing to dissuade her students from spreading rumors about the Goddess Tower. They can have their fun. If a certain someone tries to interfere, well. She has ways of dealing with that.

The thought that this isn’t really _for_ her is what makes her suspect absolutely nothing is amiss when she’s called into the Captain’s office. Her father’s been taking care of threats well outside the monastery, but he’s made the occasional stop-over to resupply and spend a few days getting his bearings. 

She assumes he’s going to give her some kind of update, or tell her something gratingly cryptic like he did last time. He’s been talking more and more about Rhea, the church, and even Byleth’s mother, but he never gives details she can work with. Every time he brings it up, he just manages to instill a vague sense of dread that’s loomed over their relationship for months now.

Byleth is pleased to find that’s not the case today, though. He doesn’t make use of the words she hates (“after I’m gone”), nor does he sit her down to explain the value of strong convictions and the pursuit of personal knowledge. He does stand forebodingly by the window, though, as solid and towering as ever, his hands linked behind his back. 

His expression softens when he turns to look at her, his weathered face betraying his emotional state in a way Byleth’s rarely does. “Hey, kid.” 

“Hey.” She invites herself deeper into the room and surveys the map behind his desk. “Finally going to tell me what errands Rhea has you running for the church?” 

He lets out a weary, regretful sigh. “You know I can’t.” 

“I know you won’t.” Her tone is neutral as she says it, her gaze tracing the lines he’s marked between Garreg Mach and a distant territory to the west. 

“No matter what I might think of the place or the people who run it, you’ve got a good thing going here, Byleth.” 

He so rarely uses her name that Byleth looks over at him, a shock of guilt lancing through her as she takes in his expression. He seems nervous. He also looks like he’s aged another ten years since she entered his office.

And she doesn’t like the implication that he’s staying here for her. She wasn’t given much of a choice when they first came to this place. While she doesn’t regret it now, if her father is having second thoughts about their involvement with the church, he should have said it far earlier and in ways she could actually interpret.

Byleth’s feelings about her father are, as always, complicated. 

“Anyway, this isn’t about business.” Some of that nervous energy comes through again as he rakes a hand through his hair. “With the ball coming up, I’m realizing I neglected some of my fatherly duties, and I need to fix that.” 

She just blinks at him, then looks about the room, some part of her convinced he’s actually talking to someone else. “Sorry, what?” 

“Listen, kid.” He finally moves from the window and comes to rest at his desk, leaning against it. “If your mom knew I never taught you how to dance, she’d come back from the dead and take me with her.” 

Byleth has always known her very dry sense of humor came from her father, so the only thing she can think is that he must be setting up some heavy-handed joke. Or she would think that, if he didn’t look like he was being forced to endure a swarm of angry wasps. His face is pinched, he can’t quite meet her gaze, and he just looks deeply, deeply uncomfortable.

“You’re still not making any sense, old man.” She uses the moniker with affection, despite the fact that he has her absolutely baffled.

“I know you’re there to chaperone, but people are going to ask you to dance. And when they do, you need to be ready.” 

Byleth’s very soul seems to twist in the most uncomfortable way. This is the same talk he had with her when he taught her to always keep her blade in reach of her bedroll. Or--more distressingly--when he bought her a special blend of tea and just thrust the bag of leaves into her hands.

_You can’t rely on men to do the right thing, Byleth. We don’t know our ass from a hole in the ground half the time. And just… I don’t need any grandkids right now, got it?_

She rubs two fingers against her temple, a sudden tension blooming there. “I really don’t plan on--” 

The words start to leave her with the expected level of confidence and a dismissive sort of incredulity, but then an image surfaces in her mind of one particular man who will almost certainly avoid dancing with her if he can help it. Because this ball is “for the students,” and he knows if he gives her that much leeway, she will take everything she can from it just to see that fire in his eyes. 

Or that softness she’s beginning to appreciate just as much. 

A blush rises in Byleth’s cheeks and she looks away from her father. His single, subdued chuckle is enough to tell her he’s noticed. “We’ll start today and fit in a couple more lessons before the ball. That’ll pretty much be the extent of my knowledge, anyway.” 

Sothis bless her father for not prying. She doesn’t think she could have that conversation with him. 

“Today as in… now? You called me to your office just to teach me how to dance?” she asks, still not believing it.

“We can talk battle strategy if you really want, but it has to be while dancing. Come on, kid.” She watches with wide eyes as he moves the chairs out of the way, clearing space in front of his desk. “Come stand in front of me.” 

She tentatively walks over and her father instructs her on where to put her hands. One at his shoulder, the other grasped in his. 

“Now, it’s just like swordfighting--” 

“I seriously doubt that,” Byleth says, looking up at him.

“You gonna keep talking back, or are you gonna listen up so you don’t fall on your face in front of whoever it is you were thinking about earlier?” She blushes clear to the tips of her ears and averts her gaze. “That’s what I thought.” 

As it turns out, Jeralt has a point beyond embarrassing her. It _is_ like swordfighting, in that she needs to read the body language of her partner to understand how and when to move. At first, she’s clumsy. She steps on her father’s boots more often than not and even trips over her own feet once. But slowly she begins to let go of her conscious awareness, focusing on something more instinctual. 

She’s not the most graceful person to ever follow a simple dance, but the knowledge she gains after just a few turns about Jeralt’s office is significant. 

Learning the steps of what her father assures her were the most popular dances when he was at the Academy--something Byleth wisely doesn’t comment on--she can’t help but wonder if Seteth will find this frivolous. There’s a certain grace and power to his movements already--she has no doubt he would be an accomplished dancer, if he so chose. 

Perhaps he’ll agree to a dance, but criticize her the entire time. Then she can goad him into correcting her, which would obviously involve public touching. A few comments fishing for his thoughts on her _form_ and she can likely steal him away from the ballroom for a time. Then perhaps she’ll get to experience more of that exhilarating, intoxicating, _confusing_ feeling she’s only ever felt when he’s around. 

The physical aspect of their relationship is enticing enough. He’s a considerate, experienced lover who doesn’t waste time flailing about with no clue as to how a woman’s body even works. He’s awakened and indulged sides of her she would never have imagined existing, and at this point--with just two additional trysts between them--he knows what pleases her almost as well as she does. The thrill of discovery is still there, but there’s something to be said for knowing _exactly_ what buttons to push.

There’s also something to be said for the quiet intimacy that occurs after. Laying beside him, spent and satisfied, she’s caught his gaze on her and it’s been… more than she even fully knows how to process. The way he touches her sometimes, the softness in his voice when he says her name, the fact that he’s allowed her to stay until the wee hours of the morning…

It means something, but Byleth doesn’t know what. Sothis has been little help in that regard, but she _does_ have someone at her disposal who might know, if she can find a way to ask that doesn’t leave her vulnerable. 

“Did my mother teach you this?” she asks as he offers her a formal bow to start another dance.

“Mmhmm. Patience of a saint, that woman. She polished up a headstrong boy with two left feet.” He smiles fondly, and Byleth can’t help but return the expression. “I still wasn’t very good, but the months leading up to our wedding, I paid for lessons from an instructor.” 

“Why?” 

She can’t imagine her father bothering with something like that. He’s stubborn enough that he doesn’t do anything he doesn’t absolutely want to do, and somehow she has a hard time imagining him as someone who deeply appreciates dance. 

“Well, because I knew it would make your mother smile,” he says, gently correcting her when she moves into the wrong step. “And usually the best way to show someone you care is by doing things that mean something to them.” 

“But… she’d already agreed to marry you,” Byleth says, her brow furrowing. 

“It’s not some kind of one-to-one exchange, kid. You don’t do it because you expect something out of it. You do it because that person matters to you. And because it’s important for them to know your life wouldn’t be the same without them in it. Every single day, you find some way to show them that, because you never know when you won’t get the chance to do it anymore.” 

He stops moving, and Byleth just looks up at him, her heart twisting in her chest. That stab of guilt returns, prompting her to do something about it this time. She’s never been very affectionate with her father--it’s just not what their relationship is--but she moves her hand to his upper arm and gives it a squeeze, offering him a tentative smile. 

“Don’t worry about your old man.” He clears the emotion from his voice. “To be honest, I’m… glad I get to talk to you about these things. You never had much interest before.” 

She looks down, but before she can say anything, her father takes her chin in hand and tilts her back up to look at him. 

“Not saying there’s anything wrong with that, kid. It is what it is, and you shouldn’t have to be something you’re not just to make other people more comfortable with you.” 

For a very long time, Byleth never even realized she _was_ different. They were constantly on the move, so she would’ve been unable to form attachments even if she’d been inclined toward such a thing. Even outside of that, her father never demanded more from her. He never made her feel like she was broken, even if others did. 

“I feel… different since coming here,” she admits. “I react to things differently. I prioritize things I never would have considered before. I want things I can’t even name.” Byleth lets out a helpless laugh. “It’s… a lot.” 

“It can be,” Jeralt says with a soft smile. “But it’s worth it.” He claps her so firmly on the shoulder that she almost staggers with the force of it. “Alright, I’m sure there’s more you’ve gotta get done today. Come back here Thursday, same time. We’ll get in some advanced practice.” 

The last thing she expects is the surge of excitement she feels over engaging in twice-weekly dancing lessons with her father, but she decides not to question it. Instead she starts toward the door. Before she can leave, he calls out to stop her.

“Oh, and kid? I know I don’t say it as much as I should, but… I’m proud of you.” 

*** 

By the time the ball arrives, Byleth is as prepared as she’s going to be. She wears her typical attire--much to the disappointment of Hilda and Dorothea--because she _is_ there to chaperone, regardless of her dancing skills. Tonight is for the students, something she tells them repeatedly, even as Dorothea needles her about dance partners. 

The young woman hasn’t said anything more about Seteth, but Byleth has also taken excruciating care not to show any physical evidence of their time together. Oh, there are still marks on her body--marks she wears proudly, and returns to him as soon as she’s presented with the opportunity. But they’re not as visible this time. The latest to bloom into a lovely bruise is on her inner thigh. Every now and again she catches a mild flash of pain from it and remembers exactly how it was obtained. 

Outside of that, she’s found a route to and from Seteth’s quarters that keeps her away from the main thoroughfare of the monastery. She only ever goes there late into the night, returning before dawn, but she takes care just the same. There’s something thrilling about keeping this secret, though there are times when Byleth feels oddly… dissatisfied with it. 

Times like tonight, when she watches him from across the room. Few students make a habit of approaching him--his current expression seems to forbid it--and there’s no one he seeks out.. aside from her. Several times she catches his gaze scanning the room. His attention moves seemingly without purpose, but she knows better. He is aware of where she is at all times, and it never takes him long to drop the act and fix that penetrating stare fully upon her. 

He always looks away soon after. She does not, in the hopes that her unabashed interest may prompt him to seek her out with more than just his eyes. So far, she’s had no luck. Seteth is intent on maintaining this public persona in which she is little more to him than a thorn in his paw. 

“Haven’t seen you put those moves to use yet, kid.” 

The familiar voice prompts a smile from her and she turns to see her father dressed in his typical uniform. A little more cleanly pressed today, and missing the road dust that usually clings to it.

“I thought you weren’t coming back until tomorrow. Don’t tell me you dropped everything just for this?” she asks, a teasing lilt to her voice.

“I might, if only to see the look on your face.” Jeralt snorts. “But no. We finished up a little early, and some of the knights wanted to push to get back in time.” 

Yet he’s obviously had time to bathe and find clean clothes. His beard even looks like it’s been trimmed. 

_What are you playing at, old man?_

“How’s one more round of practice sound?” He holds out a hand to her, and even his most severe features soften when he smiles. 

Byleth takes the offer, sparing one more quick glance at Seteth when she does so. He’s watching her now, causing the most ridiculous stirring of nerves in her gut. She didn’t learn to do this _for_ him. She learned to indulge her father. If Seteth happens to be watching, though…

“Real surprised Claude didn’t snatch you up,” Jeralt comments as they make their way to the dancefloor. He offers her a bow which she returns. A curtsy just doesn’t suit her, or the attire she’s wearing. 

“Have you met Claude? He’s one of the most popular people here. He’s not going to have any shortage of dance partners.” 

She feels strangely proud of that--of all of her fawns who’ve come here tonight, the best versions of themselves. Even Marianne is here, and she’s fairly sure the young woman allowed Hilda to do her hair and makeup. 

“Hm.” He looks at her like she’s a puzzle to solve as they begin the steps. “What about the skirt-chaser? Sylvain? He hasn’t given you any trouble, has he?” 

Byleth blushes faintly, then scans the room for Sylvain. She manages to catch the not-so-rare moment of Ingrid cuffing him across the back of the head as a woman storms away from him. 

“Not anymore. I’m capable of setting boundaries, you know. You taught me that.” Whatever aggravation she felt turns into something softer, and she smiles.

_Listen, kid. I’m only gonna say this once, but it’s important: If a man ever pushes you for something you don’t want, you let him know he can either step back, or lose an appendage. You understand? Doesn’t matter what you’ve already said yes to. It’s always your call._

She’s lucky, she realizes. She’s never thought about it before, but her life could have been so different. 

“I never thanked you for that,” she says, following the steps with ease as the music swells. “Or for any of it. I know I wasn’t the… easiest daughter to raise…” 

“Byleth--” 

“Let me say this,” she cuts in softly, one brow raised in challenge. Jeralt falls silent. “You were right. I shouldn’t have to be something I’m not. But coming to this place, I’m starting to see how hard it was for you. I can’t make up for that, but I think… things can be different, going forward.” 

He smiles at her, giving her hand a squeeze. “I’d like that.” 

They continue through the dance with Byleth only tripping once. Her father’s steady hand keeps it from being as big of a blunder as it could have been, and she’s grateful. Especially because she can still feel Seteth’s eyes on her. 

Her own gaze strays, and when her attention returns to her father, she finds him looking over her shoulder. Right at Seteth. She wills herself not to blush and only partially succeeds. 

“Huh.” 

That one word, one _sound_ is all he says for the longest time. Anxiety winds so tightly inside of Byleth that she feels as if she’s going to snap. She nearly does, almost prompting him to follow that up with _something_. 

But after an agonizingly long few minutes, he finally does. “Rhea’s advisor, huh? Can’t say I’m thrilled about that.” She opens her mouth to speak, but Jeralt beats her to it. “I know, I know. Not my call. Just… be careful with these people, kid. They’ve got a lot of secrets they aren’t too keen on sharing with the rest of us.” 

She thinks of Seteth’s pointed ears. After that first night, she’d considered researching what it might mean, but it felt like a betrayal to do so. He’d sounded remorseful when he said there were things he couldn’t tell her, which means perhaps he _wants_ to, and she’d rather hear it from him directly. 

“You’ve never had this much to say about anyone else I’ve been involved with,” she points out. “I think your bias is showing.” 

“I’m sure it is, but you’ve also never looked at any of the others the way you look at him.” It’s Jeralt’s turn to lift one brow as if challenging her to refute it. 

She can’t. 

“I hope he lets his guard down a little when he’s not in public. Every time I’ve talked with the guy, he’s had a stick shoved so far up his ass I could see it in the back of his throat.” 

Byleth very forcefully buries her head against his shoulder, letting out a muffled groan. “Stop.” 

“Professor, it has come to my attention that the youths demand something called a ‘sense of humor,’” Jeralt says, with the most unconvincing impression she’s ever heard. “I wonder if you can assist.” 

She laughs, because he’s not _that_ far off. For all she’s learned about Seteth recently, he can still seem unreachable; set apart from their peers. 

“Can I disown you? I want a new father,” Byleth mutters against his shoulder. 

Jeralt lets out a loud and boisterous laugh, one that brings a smile to her face despite it all. She looks back up at him and sees that same fondness in his eyes from earlier.

“In all seriousness, kid… if he’s good to you, that’s all I care about. And if he’s not…” 

“He’ll lose an appendage,” Byleth said with a smirk, quoting his advice from years ago.

Her father glances at Seteth once more. Just the briefest look, as apparently even he knows the meaning of discretion. “Yeah. Between the two of us, he definitely will.” 

“Hey, Teach! Teach’s dad.” She looks over to see Claude, his face mildly flushed from just finishing a dance. “Mind if I cut in for the next?” 

“I’m flattered, but I should be getting back to work,” Jeralt says. Byleth just rolls her eyes, but gives him a smile when he steps back and bows. “Have fun out there, kid.”

As Claude pulls her into a whirling, breathless dance, she thinks she just might.

*** 

From the day she joined the Golden Deer house, Dorothea has been told repeatedly that it’s not wise to bet against Claude. But the odds have always been stacked against her, and that’s certainly never stopped her before. Besides, in this particular bet, she knows she’s right.

Their dear professor couldn’t be more obvious if she tried. As hard as she usually is to read, it doesn’t take much insight to follow those stray glances that somehow seem to land on the same person every time. And while the object of those glances might be a little less conspicuous, even he doesn’t escape notice.

Dorothea _does_ have an eye for these things, after all. Enough to see that Claude is wasting his time twirling the professor about, hoping to get a confession that will secure victory. As he parts from Byleth, Dorothea bites her lip to keep from looking too smug. 

“Oh, dear. That’s not the face of someone who’s won a bet,” she taunts him in a singsong voice as soon as he’s close enough to hear.

“It’s as good as won.” He gives her a devilish grin, plucking a glass of wine from a tray. “She might not have given up direct information, but I got enough. I’m telling you, it’s just casual. One of those things where you know you shouldn’t indulge, but you just can’t help it.” 

Dorothea purses her lips. He’s bluffing, and not very convincingly. He always smiles widest when he doesn’t have complete confidence in his angle. It doesn’t happen often, but she certainly knows a performance when she sees one.

“The night is young, Claudie,” she says, patting his cheek. “Plenty of time for you to realize you’re wrong.” 

“I’m never wrong. Sometimes other people are just more right.” 

Her eyes roll skyward, but a smile remains on her lips. Coming from anyone else--especially someone like Ferdinand or Lorenz--that statement would have been infuriating. From Claude, it’s harmless. Like a newborn fawn tripping over its shaky legs and insisting it prefers the ground. 

“Keep telling yourself that,” Dorothea says sweetly. 

She’s prepared to give him even more grief over just how wrong he is. Her attention turns toward Seteth for what must the hundredth time tonight, but for once he isn’t looking at Byleth. He’s arguing with Flayn, his posture rigid. She’s as emotive as ever, her hands balled into fists at her side, while Seteth barely betrays a thing. 

“What do you think that’s about?” she asks, leaning close to whisper. 

Claude frowns. “She was looking forward to dancing tonight, so I’m guessing the church’s grumpiest faculty member told her no.” 

They watch as Flayn continues to make her case. From this angle, Dorothea can’t read her lips, but the dramatic performance is superb. She can’t help feeling bad for the girl, especially when she storms off.

“You know… if Seteth’s distracted, she could have that dance,” Dorothea muses aloud. 

She glances at Claude and sees the familiar spark of a scheme forming in his eyes. “Lucky for her, I’ve got just the thing to make that happen.” 

They wait a respectable amount of time until Flayn is seated at a table, a glass of something fizzy pressed to her lips. Seteth is still watching, but Claude makes sure to slide into a seat that blocks his view while Dorothea takes point on the other side, serving as lookout. 

“You look awfully down for someone at a ball,” he says, giving her one of his most charming grins. 

It works. Of course it works. Dorothea seems to be one of the few people it _doesn’t_ work on, and even she has her moments of weakness. 

“Oh, Claude! Dorothea! You needn’t fret over me, I will be fine.” The emotion in her voice suggests otherwise. “My brother is simply being his usual overprotective self.” 

“We saw the two of you talking a few minutes ago,” she says, reaching for Flayn’s hand. “What’s he worked up about this time?” 

Affection is something that has always come easily to Dorothea. So much so that she barely thinks about it anymore. But Flayn’s reaction to her touch makes her very aware that perhaps not everyone is as starved for it as she is. Even if the newest Golden Deer might not hate it, the widening of her eyes and the blush on her cheeks makes it seem like she’s not that used to being touched. Dorothea gently pulls her hand away. 

“I was hoping to dance with someone this evening, that is all.” Her blush deepens, this time having nothing to do with Dorothea. “My brother is concerned that I am not well enough to do so, which is absolutely absurd.” 

“Have your sights set on anyone in particular?” Claude asks, turning in his chair to look out over the dancefloor. “Lorenz is always looking for a dance partner. Or Sylvain--you could probably keep him out of trouble.” 

Dorothea’s eyes widen and she mouths where Flayn can’t see her. ‘Seriously?’ 

Claude gives the slightest shrug in answer.

“Absolutely not. I know the type of partner Sylvain is looking for, and I assure you I’m not interested.” She says it with such conviction, all while blushing beet red. 

“Okay, okay,” Claude says, putting up his hands defensively. “What about your favorite Golden Deer? Think I could steal you away for a dance?” 

“W-what? I… I would, but my brother…” 

_Oh, no. You poor, sweet girl._

Flayn is as good as doomed. And Claude’s unknowingly destined for the grave, too. Once Seteth finds out his baby sister has a crush on one of the Academy’s biggest flirts, it’s all going to go downhill in a hurry. 

But there’s no stopping the desires of a young heart. Maybe Byleth will be able to put in a good word for Claude. 

“I think we can deal with your brother,” Claude says, leaning into the elbow he has resting on the table. “Dorothea and I have been trying to get him to lighten up all night. Any suggestions?” 

Her gaze narrows in question, wondering just what he’s playing at. There’s always some plan; some angle only Claude understands. His scheme would fall apart if Flayn asked about the validity of it all, but he must know she won’t. 

“I believe he wishes to dance with the professor. He has watched her all evening, and he was especially anxious when you were dancing with her earlier, Claude.” 

There’s something in her voice that makes Dorothea think this isn’t just a passing observation. She knows something. Of course she does. It’s probably the same thing Dorothea herself knows, and what Claude refuses to acknowledge. 

Seteth is absolutely, undeniably in love with their professor. And the feeling is mutual. 

Her heart swells at the thought of this serendipitous bit of matchmaking pulling together so well. She might not be able to sort through her own non existent love life, but she’ll be damned if she’s wrong about Byleth’s. 

“Perfect! I bet Teach can keep him busy. Long enough for you to get at least one dance in with yours truly, at least,” he says with a wink.

Flayn’s too busy musing to notice the flirtation this time. “Perhaps. But I have already tried to convince him.” 

She exchanges a look with Claude, catching the glint in his eyes, then leans closer so she can whisper just loud enough for Flayn to hear. “Then you just have to leave it up to fate.” 

*** 

Dorothea’s idea of fate is quite different from her own, but Flayn discovers she does not mind it. It is nice to think that she might be in control of her own destiny for once, and that she perhaps might also give her father the nudge he seems to require. 

He’s always been cautious, but after Mother died, he shut so much of himself away. He hides behind a nearly impenetrable mask of paranoia and propriety that’s been a strain on their relationship and his health. At first, the sudden appearance of the professor seemed only to exacerbate his most troubling predilections, but now…

Her father might think she doesn’t _know_, and while it is true she has no experience in matters of the heart, she knows him well enough to see what he does not wish to acknowledge. Especially when he is not as sly as he thinks, and she is not as naive as he believes her to be. 

She sees the change in his expression whenever she mentions Byleth. At first he was notably frustrated, then flustered, and now the tiniest hint of a smile graces his lips--each and every time. And whenever the professor enters a room, her father’s face lights up like the night sky beaming down at the ocean. It is only for a moment, but long enough for Flayn to notice. 

She likes seeing this side of him, even if it was a surprise at first. True, there was the briefest moment where she felt a surge of protectiveness over her mother’s memory. But her father was not cast into a near-endless sleep as she was. He has been alone for too many years, and deep down, she knows no matter how important Byleth becomes to him, there will always be space in his heart for both women. That is all she needs. 

Besides, she adores the professor. She will adore her even more if she continues to somehow soften her father’s roughtest features. And if she might perhaps consider her plea for a younger brother or sister…

Flayn tries to control her thoughts, her bottom lip tugged lightly between her teeth as she approaches her father once more. He is still hopelessly “sneaking” glances at Byleth and pretending as if he is simply observing the entirety of the room. 

“Brother,” she greets him, in a far warmer tone than the one she left him with. 

“Ah. Flayn. I apologize for becoming so frustrated earlier, but I hope you can appreciate the delicate nature of the situation.” 

He looks rather tired. She supposes a potent concoction of worry and denial will do such a thing to anyone.

“I do, but I was hoping you might permit me just one dance with someone I know you trust not to harm me,” she begins

“Flayn…” 

She drops into an elegant curtsy--the one her mother taught her so long ago--and sees her father’s features instantly soften. “That person is you, Brother. Would you dance with me?” 

Flayn has become all too aware of the moments when he will deny her and raise an argument. Now is not one of those times. For all his hesitation, she knows he will consent.

“Very well. I suppose one dance will not hurt,” he concedes. “But you must tell me if you feel light-headed or short of breath.” 

She indulges him with a smile and a nod, excitement thrumming through her veins. This plan will work. Her father suspects nothing, and though she is thrilled to be able to dance with someone--with Claude--it is just as thrilling to think about the fact that she is taking part in one of his notorious schemes. And to her own father’s benefit, no less!

“You seem in better spirits,” he says with a smile, escorting her to the dancefloor. “I am pleased you do not hate me.” 

“I would never hate you, Brother, no matter how much I may disagree with you.” Her own expression softens. “We have lost far too much time for such pettiness.” 

“Indeed we have.” He leads her to an area of the grand ballroom that is not well occupied by dancers, falling in step to the music with ease. “Have you otherwise enjoyed the evening?” 

“I have,” she admits. “It is nice to be a part of something like this, both as a student and…” 

She does not finish the thought, but he nods, the gesture accompanied by a swift glance to make certain no one is listening. Flayn almost sighs.

And then she feels just a little… mischievous. Just a touch. Oh, Dorothea would be so very proud of the thoughts she is having right now. She very nearly giggles in anticipation of her father’s reaction, but of course she manages to compose herself. If she is going to be a Golden Deer, she must learn to properly scheme. 

“And have you enjoyed yourself, Brother? You have seemed quite restless this evening.” 

She must not lead with her own knowledge. That will give away the game far too quickly. 

“I am a chaperone, Flayn. If I am restless, it is because I am paying mind to students who believe themselves to be far more clever than they are.” His gaze cuts toward Claude in particular, and Flayn struggles to compose herself. 

Is now the time? Surely Claude would build the anticipation, but she cannot contain it any longer. 

“That is curious. Is the professor counted among such a group? Every time I follow your gaze, that is where it leads.” 

It takes every ounce of her willpower to keep from splitting into an impossibly large grin as the color suddenly drains from her father’s face. His eyes go wide, his lips part, and she believes she has never seen him so thoroughly caught out before. 

“I… merely wish to ensure she is not overwhelmed,” he manages, and Flayn is mildly perturbed by the fact that he thinks such a lie will work on her. “She has yet to chaperone an event of this size.” 

“Perhaps she is in want of such guidance. She has sought you out several times, as well,” she says, hoping her voice sounds as casual and disinterested as Claude’s might. 

“Has she?” The words tumble out of his mouth and she feels as if she has already won this delightful game. “Of course she has. As I said, the atmosphere is rather overwhelming.” 

He covers for himself so poorly that Flayn has to bite her lip to keep from giggling. As she does so, she catches movement out of the corner of her eye. Claude. He is dancing with the professor again, as planned, and spinning her closer and closer. 

Anticipation winds so tightly through her that she can hardly stand it. There is no time to fully prepare him for what is about to happen, but she at least has a few parting words in mind. 

“Brother, I want you to know that I do this for your own good.” 

Words he has said to her before, many times. It feels somewhat vindicating to say them to him now, and to see the bafflement on his face as she uses what strength she has to push him away from her.

And into the arms of Professor Byleth. 

*** 

It is rare for Seteth to be so completely and utterly bamboozled, but as he ends up in the arms of the one person he has been attempting to avoid this entire evening, he fears his daughter has managed to do just that.

There is nothing graceful about it. His body collides with hers and it is only through sheer instinct that he manages to catch her after the fact. The _only_ mark of good fortune is that his hands have ended up someplace more proper than they could have. One rests upon her arm, the other at her side, but there is no mistaking the sudden existence of warmth and softness he has done his very best not to yearn for tonight.

For Byleth’s part, she looks as flummoxed as he currently feels. Blue eyes blink up at him, dazed. Her lips slowly curve into a smile that does the most inconvenient things to his heart. 

“I think we’ve been set up,” she murmurs, the movement of her lips fairly mesmerizing. 

_You are in a very_ public _space, please recall…_

“It would appear that way,” he manages, clearing his throat. “I apologize, Professor. One moment Flayn and I were dancing, and the next--” 

He looks for his meddlesome daughter and finds her dancing with Claude. Seteth tenses, then immediately moves to pull away from the woman he’s been holding in a bewildered position for several moments now, but Byleth’s hands squeeze his arms. 

“She’s fine. Claude’s not going to do anything _improper_, and if he does, you have my permission to do what you must. After I have a go at him first.” 

He meets her eyes again and finds the most charming smile within them. The sentiment does not go unappreciated, either. He knows she is fond of Claude, so the fact that she would defend Flayn over him is endearing. 

Even still, Seteth finds himself looking back at the pair once more. This must have been Claude’s plan. He merely found it convenient to pass Seteth off to the professor, just so he could get Flayn alone. Nevermind that she is in a large crowd of people and looks far happier than he’s seen in some time.

“Seteth.” 

He barely hears his name, but there is certainly no ignoring the touch of her fingers along his chin as she turns him to look at her. Heat blooms in his cheeks, sudden and fierce. His gaze darts around the ballroom in a paranoid rush.

“Professor,” he hisses. “We are in public, with many impressionable eyes upon us. You cannot conduct yourself so freely.” 

“No one’s watching us,” she scoffs, demonstrably wrong. People absolutely _are_ watching them. “Even if they were, we’re not doing anything wrong. It’s acceptable for two people to dance with one another, Seteth.” 

“Perhaps, but we are not dancing,” he points out.

“And whose fault is that?” He wants so very badly to answer the challenge in her eyes. Would that they were alone… “One dance. It’s the least you can do for avoiding me all night.” 

For a moment he considers denying her outright, but perhaps it would not be too terrible to dance with her at such a function. So long as he does not hold her too close, he will be in no danger of giving away their secret. Pressing his lips together in a thin line, Seteth steps back from her and takes one of her hands in his, carefully placing the other at her waist.

They are well behind the music, so he silently counts the beat in his mind and sweeps her into the dance once it is prudent to do so. 

“I have not been avoiding you,” he says, and it is only partially a lie. “How ludicrous.” 

Byleth just smiles up at him, her gaze never leaving his, her fingers splaying a bit too far over his shoulder. She brushes over the fabric that hides the lingering bruise from her bite and Seteth gasps. 

“If I _did_ avoid you, this would be why,” he says, his voice barely louder than a whisper. “You promised me discretion, Byleth, and this is not it.” 

There is the slightest flash of hurt in her eyes that makes Seteth both regret and resent his own words. Even if it is gone in an instant, he has seen it. He knows it’s there, and he will have to account for it properly. 

“Believe me, Seteth, if I wanted to completely abandon discretion, you’d know.“ Again her finger just barely strokes over that hidden mark on his skin. He can feel the insatiable beast quaking beneath the surface, roused yet again by this woman alone. “I think I’d be well within my rights to ask why you’re leaving an entire person’s worth of distance between us right now, but I’m not going to.” 

“Because if I held you as close as I wished, there would be no mistaking my feelings for you.”

Her eyes widen just slightly, her breath hitching in response to words he absolutely did not intend to say. Goddess, how very close he’s come to just confessing outright. It is fortunate that particular phrase can be interpreted in many different ways, as it is certainly no secret that he desires her, nor does he believe it any revelation that he enjoys her company. 

She looks at him as if she is trying to discover the answer in his eyes, and Seteth is torn between hoping she can and praying she cannot. He is not ready to account for the yearning in his heart just yet. Byleth has given no indication that she would ever wish such a thing, and he is not so eager to end what is currently working very well between them. 

“What if we weren’t surrounded by a room full of students and faculty?” Byleth posits, following his lead a bit more clumsily than he expects, the toe of her boot briefly jabbing against his.

“Then I suppose things would be different,” he concedes. Whether it is her coaxing or his own lack of control, his hand moves a few scant inches, resting just above her hip. “But we were both asked to chaperone this evening. We cannot neglect our duties.” 

There is a glint in her eyes he both adores and dreads in equal measure. She is planning something that is not altogether proper; something only she would ever get him to agree to, if he is being completely honest with himself. 

“I keep hearing students talk about the Goddess Tower. I think I even saw a pair of them sneak off not long ago,” she says, her gaze moving toward the doors. “If we go now, we could probably catch them before anything happens.” 

He wants nothing more than to escape with her; to kiss her until they are both breathless and hold her close enough that he can feel her shiver in response. He wants her legs hooked over his hips, her arms around his neck as he pins her against the nearest wall. He wants that sultry voice of hers to whisper his name--and perhaps a bit more. 

But the Goddess Tower? That is a terrible idea. They would be far too exposed there. They cannot even leave the balroom to begin with. Their presence will be missed, and Flayn could get into unimaginable amounts of trouble while he is not here to watch her. 

Even as he thinks it, he remembers that flash of hurt in Byleth’s eyes and just how many times he has caught her looking at him this evening. She truly did wish to share this with him, and his callous paranoia has taken that from them both. 

Perhaps a brief sojourn would not be the worst thing in the world. He glances back toward Flayn one last time, feeling Byleth lightly squeeze his shoulder.

“She’ll be fine. You’ve raised her well, Seteth,” she whispers. Then, more loudly, “I’m sure you don’t want to neglect your duties as a chaperone.” 

“No, you are right. The Goddess Tower is a popular destination on this night. We must be thorough.” He withdraws from her, unable to keep from smiling as her eyes positively dance in response. “If you will join me for a quick patrol, Professor?” 

“Of course.” 

Her expression is grave, her nod severe. Seteth’s heart does the strangest flip at the idea of _getting away with_ something, as if he is little more than an adolescent. He keeps a respectful distance, walking the perimeter of the grand ballroom, holding the door open for her before he exits, as well. 

The stirring of a cool breeze feels lovely after being trapped inside all evening. He draws in a breath of crisp autumn air and notices Byleth doing the same, her hair briefly blown about. They need to make their way to the Tower, lest he forget himself completely and draw her into his arms right now. 

They walk that direction, passing a few students along the way. One pair sit upon one of the stone benches and instantly wrench apart from one another as Seteth stares them down. 

“I expect to see the both of you back in the ballroom once we return,” he says, his brows lifting in silent threat. 

The assent is hurriedly mumbled, the students scampering away. Byleth says nothing, but when he looks over at her, he can see the roundness in her cheeks from where she is fighting a smile. Once she notices his regard, she laughs.

“You’re truly the bane of amorous young students everywhere,” she teases. 

“A burden I am not ashamed to undertake, especially when no one else seems inclined to do so.”

“Hm.” That hum is the loveliest and most vexing sound he has ever heard. “Who will supervise the faculty, I wonder?” 

Her eyes flash with mischief mere moments before she rushes ahead. Seteth hisses out her name in a harsh whisper, but it is too late. She gains distance on him, her heels clicking on the old flagstone. He absolutely does _not_ chase her. He is too old to chase anyone. 

But he does follow with some expediency. 

Once he ducks inside the base of the tower, the need for propriety is momentarily cast aside. Still he does not chase, though he does follow with even greater expediency. Her laughter echoes through the stairwell, joined by the sounds of both their shoes as they wind the spiraling stairs.

There could be someone at the top. Someone could see him acting so foolishly, so recklessly, but at the moment, Seteth does not care. He is so very close to catching her, and this little game has sparked an old instinct to hunt, catch, and claim. 

His growl echoes off the stones as he reaches for her, his fingers closing around empty air at first. She tosses him a wicked grin over her shoulder and hastens her steps, but Seteth _does_ chase her now. His long legs cover more ground and he reaches her with ease, grabbing her arm to keep her in place while he ascends to the same level as her. Byleth’s eyes shine up at him as he presses his body to hers, pinning her against the cool stone to steal a possessive kiss. 

She melts beneath him, her fingers bunching in the cloth of his robes as she allows him to lead, offering him this privilege as though he truly has caught her. 

It is so easy to forget himself, and it takes a monumental effort to pull away from her. He nips her bottom lip one last time before he does so, earning a grin from Byleth in return. 

“We should see if there is anyone at the top,” he whispers. 

She nods, then slips her hand into his as if it is the most normal thing in the world. As if Seteth’s heart is not hammering, his mind not turning over the implications of such easy affection from someone so reserved. Even if they could be seen, he would not dare pull his hand away. The moment is too precious. 

Fortunately, there is no one here to see them. The Goddess Tower is blessedly deserted, leaving the top of it free for the two of them. As soon as they reach solid ground, Byleth tugs him close for another kiss. It is slower this time; more thorough. He is given the chance to explore her mouth, his hands moving over her body. He does not try to push for anything further and neither does she. The kiss stands on its own as something he has somehow craved, despite having spent the night with her mere days ago.

And when he draws back, her hands slide to the back of his neck and she tightens her grip just enough to keep him close. She presses her forehead to his and Seteth’s heart squeezes in his chest. This is… lovely. This quiet intimacy. As much as he enjoys everything they have done thus far, there is something about this moment that speaks to a deep need he has repressed for a very long time. 

“Dance with me? I’d hate for you to miss out on the culmination of three lessons’ worth of knowledge,” she teases lightly. 

“Did you not know how to dance?” 

She shakes her head, her lip tugged between her teeth. “My father insisted on teaching me, but I was… hoping I’d have the chance to put it to use.” She pauses, and Seteth holds his breath. “With you.” 

It is absurd to think she learned to dance _for_ him. She has said already that her father wished to teach her. But perhaps she could have said no. Perhaps the idea of dancing with him did appeal to her enough to learn a new skill. Or perhaps he is allowing his heart to run away with him again. 

“There is only one problem,” he says, gently taking her hand in his, the other finding purchase at her waist. “We have no music.” 

The faintest sound of instruments drifts from the ballroom, and Seteth believes she will point that out at any moment. Instead she rests a hand at the back of his neck--not his shoulder, as is proper--smiles somewhat shyly, then begins to hum.

At first it simply sounds like a lovely, soothing melody. He guides them both to it, swaying without a hurried rhythm, not minding if he misses a step or two. As he continues, he realizes this is not simply a song she has made up. It is one he has heard before. Something that reminds him of when he was a boy, centuries ago. 

He knows where she must have obtained the knowledge of such a song, and while he is still processing exactly what she is, it is not Sothis he finds his mind dwelling upon. She has such a lovely voice, so soft and soothing. And when she rests her head against his chest, he can feel the vibration of her humming throughout his entire body. 

It is easy for him to imagine another scenario. One that occurs late at night, with Byleth resting against him, an infant cradled in her arms as she hums the same soft tune. The sharp pang of longing he feels at that thought does him no favors. It will hurt all the more when it does not come to pass. But for now, he allows himself to indulge, the steps of the dance forgotten as he simply holds her close and sways with her. 

There is something so perfect about it that he completely loses himself in the moment. So much so that once the humming ceases--his movements having long since stopped--he looks down at her and experiences the strongest compulsion to tell her exactly how he feels. It tugs at his consciousness, his heart practically demanding it.

“I…” 

_I adore you. I want to wake up next to you each and every morning. I want to meet the little girl who has your eyes and my smile._

“...Believe we should return to the ballroom before our absence is noticed.” 

He does not miss the brief flash of disappointment in her eyes. Byleth nods, gently pulling away from him, and he wonders how someone who has lived for so long can be such a coward. He tells himself it is too soon, there is too much at stake, and things would end so horribly if she does not feel the same. In truth, he is simply afraid. 

But even those fears cannot completely dampen the feeling of her taking his hand once more to descend the tower. 

***

Far below, unbeknownst to either of them, coin changes hands. Dorothea is right after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A bunch of you have already followed me on Twitter, but for anyone who's still interested, you can find me @daddaysofsummer. I love talking to other Setleth fans, so don't be shy. :)


	10. The Unconventional Family

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this was originally just going to be full-on angst. You know what comes after the ball in this timeline. But I wanted to bring a little more levity before that happens, so I came up with a couple scenes that could accomplish that. The first one was so long on its own and the tonal shift would've been so great that I just decided to make these their own chapter.
> 
> NEXT chapter will definitely be nonstop pain, but for now, I hope you enjoy some family bonding.

She makes her way to Seteth’s office with less-than-appropriate intentions. 

It’s been nearly two months since she first took Claude’s advice, and well over a month since she realized her growing attraction was reciprocated. While many of her fantasies have been brought to life in that time, there’s one that still hasn’t been fulfilled--one she doubts will ever be fulfilled, given how careful he is, but she feels inclined to push the boundaries of what he wants versus what he’ll allow.

What he wants being her, of course. And what he’ll allow probably not including that sturdy desk of his--or his office in general--but she has to try. If nothing else, maybe she can entice him into an early evening. She’s been able to get him to work less than he did, but every time she sees him with bags under his eyes or worry lines etched into his face, she feels like she’s somehow failed. Like it’s her duty to make sure he doesn’t work himself to death. 

Which is ridiculous. Seteth is an adult. He’s more than capable of taking care of himself, and if he wants to work past the point of exhaustion, what concern should it be of hers? That’s what her logical mind tells her. A mind honed by her role as a mercenary, where logic was all she ever needed. 

The part of her that’s just recently awakened says something different. That part of her frets--_frets_\--over whether or not he’s getting enough sleep. That part wants to do something about the ever-present tension in his shoulders; wants to press her lips to all of those worry lines until they disappear. 

She doesn’t understand it, which wouldn’t normally be an issue. Byleth has gone a lifetime not fully understanding the compulsions people sometimes have. But it’s different when they’re her own. She finds herself _wanting_ to understand, but being unsure how to ask. She has just enough emotional awareness to realize she’d be making herself vulnerable by doing that, and while she trusts Seteth, she isn’t sure she’s ready to show him just how… not normal she is. 

It feels like a weakness--some terrible secret she’s never been ashamed of before. The very idea makes her struggle to correct her own course. She’s going to his office for the sake of physical relief. That she understands, and perhaps that’s all she needs.

_Are you in the habit of lying to yourself now, too?_

The voice startles her for the first time in months. Sothis has been quiet lately, only offering the occasional musings. She mostly stays out of whatever Byleth’s intentions are with Seteth, and she’s grateful for it. She’s also grateful that there’s rarely any judgment there. Sometimes Byleth feels so out of her depth around him, and while it might be nice to have something to cling to, she doesn’t need some all-seeing entity commenting on how badly she flounders.

Apparently there is a limit to what Sothis can endure, though. 

She closes her eyes and mutters so softly there’s no chance of any passers-by hearing. No doubt she looks unhinged, but she’d rather that than to confess the difficulties she’s having with _feelings._ “It’s not a lie. It’s just…” 

_Not the entire truth._

“More comfortable than the truth,” Byleth shoots back through gritted teeth. 

_The truth being that you are like a child who has no concept of emotion or how to navigate an adult relationship? Yes, I suppose it would be more comfortable than that._

Wonderful. It’s bad enough that she’s beginning to see--very clearly--where she lacks. What she absolutely needed was someone else to point it out to her, too. 

_Stop brooding,_ Sothis chides her with a tsk. _I know you are sensitive about this, but there is no need. The solution is simple._

Byleth already knows her idea of simple is far different from the progenitor god’s. Of course it would be. She says nothing, just continues down the halls until Sothis grows tired of waiting for the prompt. 

_What would you tell one of your children if they were having trouble grasping a concept that is easy for everyone else?_ Byleth doesn’t answer, and she can practically feel Sothis’ frustration with her. _If you are not going to cooperate, I will simply refuse to tell you. I can be stubborn, too._

She snorts softly, her shoulders shaking in silent amusement. 

_Ask for help!_ she predictably blurts out. _You would tell them to ask for help when they need it. Honestly, must I explain everything?_

“You seem to like hearing yourself talk,” Byleth teases. “I didn’t want to interrupt.” 

_You are impossible._ There’s a pause, then Sothis’ voice becomes far more sly. _But that is what you do, is it not? Whenever you are uncomfortable, you obfuscate._

It’s no use lying to Sothis. She knows better, and any defense Byleth comes up with will be weak at best. All of this _does_ make her uncomfortable, but not for the reasons she would have thought. It’s not that she doesn’t feel she needs to understand these things. It’s… the exact opposite. 

She wants to understand. She wants to know what she’s missing, because she can feel there’s more there if she can just access that part of herself. But the thought of asking Seteth…

“I can’t ask him that,” she says firmly, her gut twisting at the very thought. “I’m not going to beg him to explain _emotion_ to me.” 

_And why not? What are you afraid of?_ Sothis asks, her voice gentle. 

What _is_ she afraid of? She’s stared down impossible odds on the battlefield, looked into the eyes of unimaginable horrors without so much as blinking. Yet this truly does scare her, and at first, she doesn’t have the words to express why. 

Suddenly, they come to her. _What if he doesn’t feel the same? What if he doesn’t want to bring emotion into this?_

The words are scrawled upon her heart, etched there now and impossible for her to take back. Something squeezes painfully inside of her as she thinks on them, and the amount of distress she feels over just that is ridiculous. 

_It is normal to be afraid._ Again Sothis’ voice is soft. Motherly. _But you must decide if you are willing to let that fear keep you from knowing the answer. I cannot decide that for you._

She knows that, of course, but it’s still disappointing to hear it. Unfortunately, Sothis isn’t part of this. Whatever she does or doesn’t feel for Seteth is something only she can take ownership of, and something she has to sort through. 

But she isn’t going to manage such a daunting feat in the next few seconds, so Byleth tucks all of that confusion away and stops before the door to Seteth’s office. She raps her knuckles against the carved wood, waiting for the familiar sound of his voice. When it doesn’t come, she prompts him. 

“Seteth? I wanted to talk to you about an improvement plan for Raphael.” 

It’s not completely a lie. She does have an improvement plan for Raphael, and it’s probably a good idea to run it by him. But that’s far from the main reason she’s here. 

Maybe she should feel a little guilty about that, but Raphael has improved in the time she’s been teaching him. She can afford to be just a little selfish.

There’s no answer, though. As Byleth listens, she hears hurried footsteps. They sound lighter than Seteth’s, and her hand goes to the hilt of her blade on instinct. The door opens a crack, revealing wide, bright green eyes that are so similar in color to Seteth’s that it nearly catches her off guard. 

“Come inside, Professor, quickly!” 

Flayn’s voice sounds urgent, veering into a strange giddiness that baffles Byleth. She’s even more confused when the younger woman’s fingers curl around her wrist. 

“Flayn, what--” 

_She’s stronger than she looks,_ Byleth can’t help but think as Flayn all but yanks her through the barely-opened door. 

Seteth’s office is dark, and even darker still when Flayn closes the door behind her. The lingering smell of candle wax is noticeably absent. It does still smell like him, though, the scent of spiced tea and a hint of smoke bringing a smile to her face. 

“Do I even want to know?” she asks. Her eyes slowly adjust, allowing her to watch as Flayn moves to her father’s desk and begins sifting through his carefully organized papers. 

“I apologize for the subterfuge, Professor, but this is a very important mission!” It does seem dire, though she suspects it’s dire in a way only Flayn would appreciate. “I must find my brother’s plans for this week.” 

Byleth just waits for the inevitable explanation and shifts to stand near the door, wondering if she’s supposed to be keeping an eye out for Seteth. That would be an intriguing start to this. If she can convince him all of this was her idea and she just roped Flayn into helping her, maybe discipline will fall squarely upon her shoulders.

...Or elsewhere. 

A blush steals across her cheeks. These are not thoughts she needs to have while supervising the stealthy efforts of Seteth’s daughter. 

“Oh!” Flayn looks back at her as if just noticing she’s there. “Of course you would not know. My brother’s birthday is very soon. On the twenty-seventh.” She pauses, scrutinizing Byleth for the briefest moment before moving on. “It is just another day to him, but this is the first year in some time that we have spent it together in relative stability.” 

Byleth’s eyebrow arches, which is enough to fluster Flayn. 

“W-what I mean to say is that there were always… outside circumstances that kept us from celebrating it in the past. Perfectly normal things. I have heard siblings can become estranged, so I am sure it was the case for us. But we are together now, and I do not want him to waste that.” 

Suddenly Byleth is glad Flayn is spending more time with Claude. Maybe she can pick up some pointers on creatively dodging the truth. She is, as always, painfully obvious. But it’s impossible not to remember Seteth’s words about there being some things he can’t tell her, so she lets it go and just indulges the girl.

“What can I do to help?” 

Flayn’s face lights up, and for a moment, Byleth believes she can see what Seteth sees when he looks at her. A gentle warmth spreads across her consciousness, emanating from her heart. It’s immediately followed by a strong surge of protectiveness that makes her very aware of the fact that she would absolutely destroy anyone who hurt this young woman. There wouldn’t be anything left by the time Seteth got to them.

Is that a normal response, or is it related to… everything else? She has no idea, but at least this particular feeling is less distressing. 

“I have been searching his desk,” Flayn gestures to the pile of disturbed papers. “If you could search one of the drawers? We are looking for anything that might reveal his schedule for the upcoming week.” 

Byleth nods, considering the door for a moment before deciding to lock it. They’re as good as caught anyway if Seteth happens by. She might as well have a little time to _try_ and hide Flayn before revealing her existence. 

Crossing the room, Byleth’s hand trails over the edge of the desk as she gets into a proper position for snooping. The wood grain is smooth, the desk itself unyielding to her touch. She very purposefully clears her mind of the thoughts that begin to surface, then settles onto the floor, her knees pressing into a rug that’s more functional than anything else. 

Going through Seteth’s things is an exercise in restraint. He has files for each student and every member of the faculty, and it takes a great effort for Byleth to avoid looking at hers. She doubts she’ll like what she sees, given his initial suspicion of her. And it’s not as if she can use this to tease him later on. It would just be criticism she has to sit on; something that makes her feel more uncomfortable than it should. Something that makes her wonder if he would still be so critical if he saw her teach today, and if any change could only be attributed to the nature of their… relationship.

_These thoughts are pointless,_ Sothis reminds her quietly, and Byleth agrees. 

She doesn’t have to struggle with the concept for very long, as Flayn finds what she’s looking for just a few minutes later. “Ah, here it is! Hmm… there is a faculty meeting in the afternoon. Were you aware of that?” 

“Vaguely.” The Garreg Mach calendar is excessively detailed. She just tries to show up wherever she’s needed. 

“Perhaps there is a way to reschedule. I do not wish to interrupt your work, but…” 

Clearly Flayn has never been to a meeting of any kind. Especially not an Officers Academy faculty meeting. Mostly they consist of Manuela and Hanneman sniping at one another from across the room while Seteth reads from a report that could have just been delivered to each of them separately. 

“You wouldn’t be interrupting anything, though it might be hard to get Seteth to agree.” She rocks back on her knees and considers for a moment. “I think I can find a way to keep the others from even showing up.” 

“And there is no use having a faculty meeting with only one other person present,” Flayn says excitedly. “Yes, I think that will work! Then you can simply bring him to… oh, I imagine you might not know where Tideseeker Cove is.” 

Heat rises in her cheeks for what feels like the tenth time this afternoon. Somehow she manages to find her voice. “I’ve been there.” 

“I know my brother goes there often. It reminds him of more peaceful times, and… someone who was very important to both of us.” 

“Your mother.” She says it before she even realizes the words have formed in her mind. Considering how wide Flayn’s eyes go, Seteth must not have told her she knows. “Don’t worry. Your secret’s safe with me.” 

“I am surprised he told you, though…” A soft smile touches her lips. “Not that surprised. But yes, the three of us spent a great deal of time by the ocean. Tideseeker Cove is the closest way to reach it from here.” 

Byleth’s expression softens, a fondness betraying itself in her eyes. Maybe she should feel strange about this revelation, but she’s oddly touched. That he would share something like that with her… it feels significant. It feels like it should mean something, though again, she doesn’t know what. 

It does make her consider Flayn in a new light, though. She obviously knows something is amiss. She wouldn’t have schemed with Claude otherwise. 

“Flayn…” She isn’t entirely sure how to start this conversation, so she just launches into it. “I know you and Claude planned something at the ball. Probably with Dorothea’s help.” The girl wrings her hands together, all but confirming Byleth’s suspicion. “So then you…” 

“Know about you and my father?” Her voice is so soft, and she looks around in a way that reminds her very keenly of Seteth. “Yes, of course.” 

Byleth pulls herself up, using the corner of Seteth’s desk as leverage. And because there’s a bit of a thrill in getting away with something so silly, she leans against it when she speaks to Flayn, the way her own father often leans against his desk. 

“Are you… okay with it?” She can feel something clawing at her consciousness; pulling just enough to be obnoxious. It might be anxiety. She can’t quite tell. “I never knew my mother, so I think it’s different for me.” 

Her father’s had casual encounters here and there. He’s never tried to hide anyone away from her. From the time she was old enough to understand, he taught her there was nothing to be ashamed of, and so she’s never felt… anything, really. But Sothis’ awakening has given her insights she didn’t have before, and she knows it might be difficult for someone like Flayn. 

“In truth I was uncertain at first. And yes, maybe a little… I think perhaps ‘angry’ is too strong a word, though ‘upset’ is… apt.” She doesn’t look at Byleth as she makes the admission. “But I like you, Professor. A great deal. And it is hard not to notice the positive changes in my brother.” 

She slips so seamlessly into that lie, but Byleth supposes she has to. Whatever the reason for that particular secret, it’s obviously important, and she takes her cue from Flayn.

:”I don’t know that I can take credit for any of that,” she says, rubbing absently at her arm. 

Flayn just smiles at her. “I know him better than he believes. The credit is yours, Professor. Almost entirely.”

Byleth can’t control the blush that seems to overwhelm her features. Her fingers flex against her palm and for a moment is unable to meet Flayn’s gaze. What has she possibly done? There was a time when she was sure he couldn’t even stand to be in the same room with her. Now she’s having a positive impact on his life? An impact even his daughter has noticed? She almost wouldn’t believe it, but Flayn’s expression is completely sincere. 

“I… I’m not sure what to say. All of this is new to me,” she admits. 

_Are you really going to ask a child for help sorting through your emotions? His _daughter_, no less?_ This time the voice in her head is her own, though she’s sure Sothis would agree. 

Flayn starts toward her, then hesitates, her hand raised briefly to her mouth. “May I hug you, Professor?” 

Byleth can’t even imagine the look on her face at such a request. Halfway between startled deer and a fish who’s found itself stuck on land, she imagines. “...Sure.” 

It’s not that she dislikes hugs or any signs of affection. She’s grown more accustomed to them since coming to Garreg Mach, and she’s even found herself slipping into them from time to time. Mostly with Seteth. 

But she still doesn’t expect the fierceness of Flayn’s embrace, or how warm she feels as she returns it. There’s something comforting about it; something that feels oddly… right, like the few times she’s hugged her father. That sense of family fills her, of having a safe place to land should she ever fall. Someone to look after and care for, who will do the same for her. 

It’s so much to pin on one hug. Too much, she thinks. But her heart feels as if it’s going to crack from how full it is in that moment. 

When Flayn finally withdraws, she feels a bit emptier than she did before the embrace. Byleth tries her best to shrug it off. She tells herself it doesn’t mean anything, though that yet again feels like a defense mechanism. When has she ever had to defend herself from _feelings_ rather than weapons? 

“You should give him a gift,” Seteth’s daughter says, her green eyes sparkling.

“Oh. I… have no idea what I’d even get him,” she admits, and it feels as if she’s owning up to failure.

She _should_ know him, shouldn’t she? There are times when she hasn’t even known the name of her bed partners, let alone what they might like as a birthday gift. But whatever she’s doing with Seteth, she knows it’s different from those encounters. She _wants_ to have that knowledge. . 

“I am certain he will appreciate the thought,” Flayn assures her. “But I believe you will figure out the perfect gift, Professor.” 

Maybe she does have a few ideas. Nothing solid yet. Nothing she’d ever hazard to call a _plan_. But there’s something pulling together in her mind, and the smallest smile creeps across Byleth’s lips. 

“We should leave before my brother returns,” Flayn says, matching her smile with one that seems to be made of the most vibrant sunshine. “Can I count on you when the time comes?” 

“Always.” 

Byleth hadn’t intended for that to mean so much more than a single word should convey, but the look Flayn gives her--something warm and radiant--makes her think some part of her did. Either she is slowly beginning to accept and understand her own emotions, or she needs to visit Manuela to get herself checked out. 

Maybe she’ll stay out of the infirmary, regardless. If this is some kind of sickness, she isn’t sure she wants to be cured. 

*** 

Seteth has, on rare occasion, interacted privately with Jeralt Eisner. At first the entire purpose was to better understand the man and his intentions. He spoke with Jeralt in his office, took the occasional meal with him, and found the Captain less enigmatic than his daughter, but still frustratingly closed-off. 

After Flayn’s abduction, however, he found himself in the peculiar position of fishing alongside the man. Leonie had assisted him in baiting his hook, bless the girl, and he’d had the intention of catching something to satisfy his daughter’s insistent cravings. 

At first they’d simply fished near each other, without speaking anything more than pleasantries. Eventually they’d begun to discuss all manner of things, though Seteth deftly avoided any discussion of Byleth. Alois had come along and scared off any fish they might have hoped to catch, but there had been something not entirely unpleasant about bonding with the man over an otherwise mindless activity. 

He cannot say the same for today, when he finds himself being called into the Captain’s office for the first time. All their meetings have thus far taken place in Seteth’s office, or in spaces that are open to the entire faculty. From the moment Jeralt requests him, Seteth feels especially uneasy about this meeting. That unease only grows when he sees the stern look on the man’s face. 

“You had something you wished to discuss with me?” he asks, marveling at his own sudden influx of nerves. 

“Close the door, would you?” Jeralt’s massive frame is slightly hunched over his desk before he straightens. 

Seteth does so, trying to dismiss the sense of dread that coils so tightly within him. His first thought is that Jeralt intends to speak with him about Byleth, but that is absurd. The Captain does not seem the type, his daughter is very much an adult, and Seteth has not been on the receiving end of such a conversation in centuries. 

It is merely his overwrought nerves wreaking havoc upon his many inconvenient emotions. 

“You mind? Not sure I can get through this without a stiff drink.” 

“I…” For several moments, he cannot manage anything resembling a coherent sentence. “No, of course.” 

As he watches, Jeralt withdraws a flask from a locked door within his desk. Seteth just stares at the man, not entirely trusting his eyes. He cannot say it is “too early” for alcohol--Manuela certainly feels no compunction over taking a nip at all hours of the day--but it feels strange to see the otherwise composed Jeralt Eisner resort to what is essentially a shot of liquid courage. 

_This can’t possibly be about Byleth. Please, Goddess, let this not be about Byleth._

“I confess I am curious what has put you in such a state, Captain.” 

Jeralt holds up one finger, taking an impressive gulp from the flask before he offers it to Seteth. “Not as fancy as the stuff Rhea has just laying around, but it’ll get the job done.” 

“...No, thank you,” Seteth says, that sense of unease winding tight enough to snap at any moment. 

The Captain just shrugs. “Suit yourself. Don’t say I didn’t offer.” 

The fact that Jeralt feels he even needs to make such an offer is… concerning, to say the least. They are not the type of acquaintances who spend the evening complaining about work while growing steadily more intoxicated. If he has indulged around Jeralt, it has been a glass of wine at dinner and nothing more. There is no precedent for this, and that is perhaps the most worrisome thing. 

He opens his mouth to ask after the man’s intentions again, but Jeralt proves it unnecessary. 

“Look, I don’t believe in fucking around, so I’ll just get right down to it: I need to talk to you about my kid.” 

All the color drains from Seteth’s face in an instant, his heart stopping as soon as those words leave Jeralt’s mouth. When it resumes, it beats so frantically he is not convinced he isn’t having some kind of cardiac event. 

The Captain lets out a strained bark of laughter, then takes another drink from his flask. “Yeah. That’s probably the face I’d make, too. I want you to know, I don’t like it any more than you do. And I’m not looking to put the fear of the goddess into you. But there are some things that…” A crease forms between his brows, a frown tugging at his lips. “Some things that need to be established up front.” 

Some part of him feels rather annoyed by Jeralt’s obvious assertion. Byleth is an adult and capable of making her own choices. She hardly needs her father breathing down the neck of anyone she chooses. And out of all the people she _could_ choose, does the man truly think him so ill-suited that he warrants such a talk? 

He realizes the notion is hypocritical even as he thinks it. If Flayn had engaged in such a relationship, he would have words with the young man, as well. Words. Actions. Ancient curses that cannot be undone by typical means…

_He_ is not a young man, however, and that is perhaps what rankles the most. “I will not insult your intelligence by feigning ignorance, Captain, however--” 

“I sure hope not,” Jeralt cuts in. “I really don’t want to explain all of this to you.” 

“However,” he repeats, trying to keep his tone neutral, “I fail to see how your daughter’s private affairs warrant such a discussion.” 

“Hnh.” A single note of amusement, much like the sounds Byleth often makes in lieu of explaining things. To his credit, Jeralt does elaborate. “Normally, I’d agree with you. And let me be clear: I’m not going to tell you I’ll kick your ass if you hurt my little girl, because she’s more than capable of kicking your ass herself.” 

That catches Seteth off guard and he has no choice but to smile. Jeralt does not know the true extent of his power, but he believes the man is correct. Byleth can handle herself and if she wished it, she could certainly handle him, as well. Saint he might be, but in this form, he would not grant himself better than even odds. And even that might perhaps be a generous thought. 

“I admit I am relieved you have no intention of posturing,” Seteth says, some of the tension leaving his shoulders. “I think that would prove tedious and unnecessary for us both.” 

“Yeah, you’re not wrong.” The pads of Jeralt’s fingers brush over his beard. “Besides. If I kick your ass and she decides she wants to keep you around, that’d make family dinners pretty awkward.”

Seteth chuckles, the sound genuine, if a touch guarded. If intimidation is not his intent, then what could possibly be Jeralt’s aim? 

“Thing is, By’s… different.” 

The affectionate nickname has a certain discordance with the tone that follows. Seteth’s hackles immediately raise, but he keeps his composure and remains silent. If he is going to be subjected to this, he will wait until he has all of the information before he makes a fool of himself. 

“And I don’t mean different as in ‘my kid is the best around and you’d better acknowledge it.’ I think highly of her--I hope that much is obvious,” he looks up at Seteth as if seeking confirmation. Seteth’s expression softens slightly and he gives the man a single nod, “but she’s…” 

Jeralt runs a hand through his messy hair and lets out a heavy sigh. He considers the flask that sits upon his desk, then stands and paces to the window, his broad form blocking out the natural lighting. Large, muscular arms fold over a barrel chest. Everything about this man is intimidating in its own way, but Seteth recognizes the tension he holds in his shoulders. 

That is the stance of a father who is worried for his child. 

“She doesn’t process emotion the way other people do. She never has. I don’t know why, I don’t know if something I did caused it, but…” He drags a hand over his face, looking far older in profile. “If you’re looking for some grand declaration or something, she won’t be able to give it. You might as well save both of you the trouble and just call it quits now.” 

For as much as Seteth has kept his composure, for as much as he has tried to empathize with the man, that simple proclamation breaks him. He considers his words only briefly before they are hurled from his mouth like sharpened spears.

“I do not know what you believe my intentions to be as far as your daughter is concerned, Captain, but rest assured I am not sitting here pining away, hoping she will suddenly be something she is not,” he says curtly. 

And yet…

Is that not what he’s been doing? Has he not wished for her to return his affections? Has he not clung to every last sign of emotion he’s seen from her? 

“I do think you underestimate her, however. While it is true there are more emotional people in the world--in this very room--Byleth is not devoid of emotion.” 

“I never said--” 

“She cares deeply for her students. I have seen that firsthand. And while I may have had difficulty communicating with her in the past, the fault was my own,” Seteth says, coming to that realization the moment the words leave his mouth. “To imply she is callous or unfeeling, to treat her as if she is some golem brought to life through the meddling of another, it is--” 

Booming laughter echoes through the office. He looks at Jeralt to find the man with his head thrown back, a smile etching crow’s feet into the corners of his eyes. Seteth draws in a breath through his nose, trying not to give in to his agitation.

“I fail to see what is so amusing about all of this.” 

“Everything,” Jeralt says, his laughter finally tapering off. He turns more fully to Seteth, his lips pulling into a smirk. “Mostly how quick you leapt to my daughter’s defense when you thought I was attacking her. Guess I don’t have to ask you about your intentions, huh? Nobody who’s in this for a fling would get so damn worked up about it.” 

“I…” The righteous indignation that burned within him fades, swallowed by abject misery. Why is he still subjecting himself to this? Seteth shakes his head, trying to correct the course of this conversation. “Regardless, Captain, I know what to expect, and I do not begrudge her things she does not wish to give.” 

“Yeah? You’re awfully defensive for somebody who knows where he stands,” Jeralt points out.

And he is certainly not wrong. Seteth has no idea where he stands. Sometimes she looks at him as if she is seeing right through him; as if she likes what she finds there. Other times he could believe she wants nothing beyond their trysts. Physical satisfaction without any other attachments. 

“Hey, I’ve been there.” He smiles fondly, obviously recalling something of his own past. “Byleth’s mom was… ah, you don’t want to hear about all of that.” He waves it off dismissively. “Here’s the thing, though: We wouldn’t be having this talk if you were the same as everybody else she’s shown interest in. Do whatever you want with that, but I just thought you’d want to know.” 

He tries to pick apart that statement in his mind, to decipher what exactly Jeralt means by those words. Is he simply older than the others? Is it his position in the church? Is the Captain’s observation in regards to Byleth alone? 

Seteth could easily drive himself mad wondering, so all he says is, “I will not guess at her feelings. All I can say is that she has become… important to me.” 

“Yeah.” The soft smile remains on Jeralt’s features, smoothing out the rough edges. “I can see that.” 

After a moment, his expression grows somber, then guarded. A shadow passes over his eyes that seems to chill the room with its presence. He returns to the desk, picks up the flask, and downs the rest of it.

“I don’t feel great about this. Putting my responsibilities on somebody else--especially somebody who works for the fucking church,” he grumbles, his voice slightly hoarse from the alcohol. “But if anything happens to me, I need you to look out for her. Before all this, I would’ve thought she’d just carry on like nothing changed. But you’re right. There’s more there now, and I’m afraid she’ll…” 

Jeralt shakes his head, obviously not caring to finish that thought. Seteth’s mind reels from the implications, his brow creasing as he looks at the man.

“Is there something you’re not telling us, Captain?” 

Another dry chuckle. “There’s a lot I’m not telling you. But as far as this is concerned? Just… desperate thoughts from somebody who’s overstayed his welcome, I guess.” 

Jeralt comes to stand before him, his large hands gripping Seteth’s shoulders insistently. It is not a touch he can say he appreciates, but it has the intended effect. He cannot look away from the plea in the Captain’s eyes.

“Promise me. I don’t want her to be alone. I never wanted her to be alone,” he says, his voice betraying just the slightest tremble. 

Seteth thinks of all the people at the academy who absolutely adore her. For as long as she lives, she will never be alone. But perhaps there will be a place for him even then. If she will allow it.

“I promise,” he says, meeting her father’s gaze. "Where she leads, I will follow." 

Jeralt gives his shoulder a squeeze. The smallest grin quirks his lips. “Maybe you aren’t that bad after all.” 

Perhaps not, but as he is “dismissed” from the meeting, Seteth cannot help but wonder at Jeralt’s morbid thoughts. _Desperate thoughts from somebody who has overstayed his welcome…_ It is a strange thing to say, and he wonders if he should alert Byleth to her father’s curious state.

Surely there is no reason to alarm her, though. Besides, if he tells her of this, he must also divulge the details of the entire conversation, and Seteth is in no way eager to do that. For now, the whole ordeal can stay between two fathers who are just trying to do the best they can by their daughters.


	11. The Broken Daughter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry for this. We suffer together.

The first time Byleth’s father told her to trust her instincts, she was six years old. 

She barely remembers anything from her early childhood, but that one memory stands out in her mind. Her father’s mercenary company was hired for a long term job, so they’d set up in an actual residence instead of a tent. She’d been alone for the first time, gifted her own room by the lady of the manor. 

She remembers it being nice at first. She felt grown up. Independent. Then night fell, and suddenly she’d never been more eager to be crammed inside a tiny tent with her father sleeping only a foot away. 

Byleth tried to make it through one night without him, but the shadows had taken on a life of their own. To this day she swears they moved of their own accord, but she never screamed. Never cried. Only whimpered softly in her bed, the blanket pulled up to her chin. 

Jeralt heard her. It’s taken this long for her to realize he was probably just as out of sorts as she was, listening through the wall in case she needed him. She had needed him, so he’d come and sat on the edge of her bed. 

”What’s got you so worried, kid?” he’d asked her.

She remembers marveling at how large and imposing he was, silhouetted by a sliver of moonlight. She'd thought him capable of scaring away all the monsters through stature alone.

She stated matter-of-factly that there was something moving in the shadows. He could have told her there was nothing to worry about. He could have sworn to protect her from whatever happened to lurk in the darkness. Instead, he’d given her the most practical advice she’d ever received.

“If that’s what your gut tells you, you should trust it.” 

She’d asked him what he meant. At that age, there was so much she hadn’t understood. Just like always, he’d patiently explained it in a way that made sense.

“It’s when you just feel like you _know_ something, but you can’t explain how,” he’d said. “That’s your instincts kicking in. You should always trust them, By.” 

That advice has proven invaluable throughout Byleth’s life, yet somehow she still finds reasons to ignore her instincts.

Everything inside of her is screaming that this mission to investigate a ruined chapel and rescue several missing students is not what it seems. Something feels decidedly _off_, but she dismisses that feeling time and again.

If there are students in danger, she has to do everything in her power to save them, just like she would for her fawns. Besides, they’re not on their own for this mission. Her father’s joining them, and she’s seen him cut down entire battalions by himself.

She feels confident as they enter the ruins. While that confidence wanes somewhat when she sees what they’re up against--strange beasts that are impervious to her normal attacks--Byleth collects herself, forms a quick strategy with Claude, and they press on. The beasts fall to smart tactics and a good dose of might, though Byleth can’t help but notice the caustic nature of their blood. It eats through her armor, burning down to her skin before she can get to Marianne. 

“You alright, kid?” her father calls, wheeling his bulky destrier around to face her. 

She just nods, sparing a quick glance at her arm, where the splatter of blood has eaten through both armor and clothing. “What’s wrong with them?” 

“Fuck if I know. Got me, too.” His gaze flicks down to his leg and she sees the same burn on his thigh. “Keep your eyes peeled. Got a feeling this isn’t over.” 

He’s following the advice he gave her years ago, and Byleth stays alert. They split up to check for any stragglers. She and Claude already recovered the students that were pinned down by beasts, but something prickles in the back of Byleth’s mind. Some awareness she can’t quite place. 

It’s the same feeling she had right before the Flame Emperor propositioned her, though, so she keeps her hand on the pommel of her blade as she surveys the ruins. 

“More students over here,” her father calls from behind her. 

She turns to see his horse stamping restively at the ground. The gelding tosses his head, snorting repeatedly. The hairs on the back of Byleth’s neck stand on end. Something’s wrong. She reaches out to Sothis, searching for guidance as her gaze falls on her father. 

Monica is walking past him. Was she one of the missing students? Again? Byleth’s fingers curl around the hilt of her blade. She takes a step forward, opening her mouth to call out to Jeralt when she sees the flash of cold steel. Monica moves swiftly, closing the distance before Byleth can even hope to get there. 

Even knowing what she does, even seeing it all unfold in front of her, she doesn’t expect the dagger that’s buried in her father’s back. She doesn’t expect him to gasp and stagger. She doesn’t expect the spray of blood, the self-satisfied smirk on Monica’s face, the way her father--a man who’s survived so much worse--crumples to the ground.

Byleth doesn’t spare time to think. She just acts. The fabric of reality bends around her, time and space distorting as that horrific moment is erased from history, but not from her mind. Never from her mind. She’ll always see it, just as she’s seen every failure. 

But she can correct it. Thanks to Sothis, she can save her father. 

As soon as she sees that flash of steel, Byleth swings the Sword of the Creator in a whip-like arc, the serrated segments ringing as they slice through the air. She aims for Monica’s neck. She doesn’t care how gruesome it is, so long as the job gets done. They didn’t call her the Ashen Demon for nothing.

But her blade never connects. There’s a flash of light, a magical barrier that bursts outward before falling dim, revealing an otherworldly figure she’s never seen before. Byleth’s blood runs cold as she looks upon him, and she knows. She _knows_ there’s no changing this. 

He says something to Monica, grabs her arm, then disappears with her in a flash of purple light just as Jeralt falls. 

“No!” she cries out, her voice sounding more animal than human to her ears.

Again she calls upon Sothis. She pushes herself harder this time, running full-tilt to intercept Monica, even if it means exposing herself to danger. That same figure is there. 

The next time, she calls to Claude. If she can rush from one angle, he can get a clear shot on Monica-- 

No. Claude can’t hear her, and by the time he does, it’s too late. 

She tries again. And again. And again. Each and every time, it takes something from her. Physically. Mentally. Emotionally. It’s not just Sothis’ divine magic, it’s the abject horror of seeing her father stabbed over and over, knowing she can’t do anything to change it.

But she keeps trying. She tries until every fiber of her being is beyond exhaustion. Until she’s close to collapsing right alongside her father. 

_You must cease this!_ Sothis pleads with her. _I am sorry, but this is one outcome you cannot change. You will kill us both if you try again._

She knows it’s true. She can’t fight anymore. She can barely stand. Somehow she makes it to her father and drops to her knees, barely feeling the impact of the ground. He looks up at her, his gaze unfocused, his lids heavy. 

“Sorry.” He can barely speak, his voice strained. “It looks like… I’m going to have to leave you now.” 

Byleth’s eyes burn. It isn’t the first time she’s felt tears welling up, though it’s always been a rare experience for her. A broken bone when she was very young. Her father losing his temper and refusing to speak to her. The first time she killed someone, their blood splattering her face. 

In the past it was always a physical response. Something she recognized but never truly understood. It served no purpose, and so she dismissed it as just another quirk of who she was. 

Now the burn is accompanied by moisture welling in the corners of her eyes. It spills past her eyelid, tracing a wet trail down her cheek, dripping off her chin. She knows what this is. She’s seen other people do it before. She just didn’t think she was capable of it.

Apparently her father thought the same. 

“To think that the first time I saw you cry, your tears would be for me.” He lets out a dry, humorless laugh. “It’s sad… and yet, I’m happy for it.” 

Byleth reaches out with a shaky hand to cup her father’s cheek, the other reaching for his hand. He’s cold. Why is he already so cold? Why is he _dying_? He lived once before. Maybe she can--

“Thank you, kid.” His eyes close, he lets out one final, shuddering breath. And then he’s gone. 

Byleth sobs. 

Her whole body is wracked by the force of her tears. She can’t breathe normally, drawing in the occasional choked wheeze through whatever it is that’s possessed her so thoroughly. It _hurts_. She’s never known pain like this before, and when water suddenly falls from the sky, some part of her wonders if she’s the one causing that, too.

She leans over her father’s rapidly cooling body, shielding him against the downpour. As if it matters. Her own tears have soaked through his armor, she’s sure of it. And it isn’t as if he can feel any of it. He can’t feel anything anymore. 

Byleth truly can’t breathe, her sobs stealing everything from her. She starts to gasp, her lungs burning. Someone’s voice calls to her, says her name, and it’s as if she’s underwater. She isn’t sure she wants to break the surface. How can she, when it hurts this much? 

“Byleth.” Claude. He’s never called her by name before.

She can feel hands grabbing her arms, pulling her to her feet. Someone stands at her side, helping to support her. Someone else blocks the rain from falling on her, a cloak spread above her head. 

It's like it’s happening to someone else. Byleth feels as if she’s trapped in that strange void with Sothis again--the place she first met the goddess, in her dreams. She would give anything to be there now, cut off from all of this. Cut off from the feelings that have hit her so sudden and fierce.

_You cannot remain in such a place. You must face this, or it will destroy you._

For the first time in months, Byleth ignores the voice in her head. For the first time in months, there is only silence.

*** 

When Rhea tells him the news, Seteth’s immediate concern is for Byleth.

He knows there are other things that should draw his attention. As advisor to the Archbishop, he should be working tirelessly to track down this new threat. He should be commanding the Knights of Seiros to leave no stone unturned in their search for Jeralt’s killer, an entity who is obviously a threat to the Archbishop herself. 

And those _are_ concerns. He intends to give each and every one the time and attention they are due. But he feels compelled to seek out Byleth first, something in him succumbing to an overwhelming need. First to make certain she is unharmed physically, then to support her in whatever way she will allow. 

It is an ancient instinct, and one he has not felt in some time. At least not with anyone other than his daughter. It is the need to offer warmth and safety--to bare fangs and spread wings in the service of protecting that which is precious to him. 

That need is what carries him to the infirmary, where Byleth was brought immediately after being returned to the monastery. He should hide his concern, conceal the fact that his nerves have been tied into unfathomably tight knots, but he cannot manage such a feat. Not until he can see for himself that she is well. 

She is sitting up in a cot, awake but very much unresponsive, her gaze unfocused as she stares at a wall. Manuela is fussing over her arm, Flayn on the other side, and Seteth tries to get a better look from the door. It is a difficult task, when several of her students are surrounding her, too. They are all drenched from the rain, blood running pink through the threads of their clothing.

Claude catches his gaze, then whispers to Dorothea. She looks over at him, her brows drawn together, a frown on her lips as she approaches. 

“What happened?” he asks, walking deeper into the hall with her. 

He has not had many opportunities to interact with Dorothea, but it has always been quite plain to Seteth that she hides as much of herself away as he does. For the first time in their acquaintance, he can see a true glimpse of what exists beneath. 

“I’m sure you heard about Captain Jeralt.” She looks back at Byleth, true concern shining in her eyes. “She’s in shock, I think. She hasn’t said a word to any of us since it happened. She won’t even look at us. I’m… I’m not sure she knows we’re here.” 

Seteth’s expression softens. Yes, he understands this state well. He has felt it before, and very likely would have felt it again after his wife died, if not for the need to protect his daughter. 

“I am sure she knows,” he says softly. “She needs time, but the impact of what you do for her now will be felt, I assure you.” 

It is, as always, quite natural for him to assuage the fears of others even as he processes his own. That is how he has lived his life for centuries. It is what has pulled him through tragedy after tragedy, and there is no need to believe it will not do the same now.

“I hope so.” Dorothea’s arms wrap about herself and she just watches silently as Manuela works. 

“She was wounded as well, then?” He cannot see from here. It does not seem as if the arm is being set, but rather some kind of salve is being applied. 

“Manuela’s treating her for a pretty serious burn,” Dorothea says, rubbing her own forearm. “When we got to the ruins, there were these… creatures. I’ve never seen anything like them.” 

“What kinds of creatures?” 

This is what he must focus on. Byleth is being taken care of by people who are far more talented at it than himself. What could he possibly give her that they cannot? It does not matter how he feels. Such notions will not help her recover. Not right now.

“Some kind of reptile, maybe? They had scales, I think. But also weird growths, and horns. Glowing eyes, too.” Her lips purse. “What do you think they were?” 

Seteth pales, the blood rushing from his face. “I… cannot be certain, but their existence does not bode well.” 

It has been a lifetime since he has last witnessed such a thing, and perhaps it is merely his worries getting the best of him. But if this has anything to do with the crests, with the blood of his people… 

“Their blood burns,” Dorothea says, sparing another glance at Byleth. “That’s what happened to her arm. I think she’s unhurt outside of that.” 

Caustic blood…? That should not be the case, especially for one such as Byleth. The implication is even more worrisome, and it is enough to pull him from his more personal concerns. He must speak to Rhea about this. She knows something, he is sure of that.

And if her knowledge can ensure something like this does not happen again, he will pursue it with everything he has.

He casts a wistful glance at Byleth, though. In a perfect world, he would sit at her bedside and simply remain there until she feels more like herself. He would take care of her, ensure she has everything she needs in as unobtrusive a way as possible. 

This is far from a perfect world, and Seteth is not free to indulge in such obvious actions. 

“I do not wish to overtax her,” he says softly. In truth, he does not wish to hover and fret and make a mockery of himself, especially if she is barely aware of the world around her presently. “Would you let her know I visited, and that I am looking into the matter of the beasts? I… shall give her my condolences in private.” 

He almost expects the lift of Dorothea’s brows or the slant of her lips, but she simply gives him a soft and genuine smile. She looks very… tired, and there are lines etched into her youthful face that certainly should not be there. She is far too young for such burdens. The Church of Seiros has truly failed these students. 

It is another issue to take up with Rhea.

“I’ll tell her. I’m sure the impact of what you do now will be felt,” Dorothea says, giving him a slight wink and a smile that does not quite reach her eyes. 

Seteth returns it, dipping his head in thanks before he leaves with great reluctance. 

*** 

Rhea is as evasive as ever, and Seteth is losing his tolerance for it. 

He joined her in this endeavor. He’s devoted his life to it, at this point. If nothing else, he is deserving of answers for that fact, but there are deeper ties to consider. They are family, and she is withholding something that could affect their dwindling line--something that could affect Flayn.

“I cannot speak on what I do not fully understand, Seteth,” she tells him after a tense conversation, her voice taking on an edge he’s not heard in some time. 

“Then perhaps you should not be meddling in things you do not fully understand."

It is not the first time they’ve fought and he is certain it will not be the last. This time, though, Rhea seems inclined to label it as something other than a concern over their very existence. 

“I am pleased to know you have opened your heart to someone again, but do not let your emotions cloud your better judgment… Brother.” 

He is not able to chide her for that “slip.” For the first time in quite a long time, Seteth is far too frustrated even to argue with his dear sister. He returns to his office, determined to gather his own notes and spend some time in the library researching. If Rhea will tell him nothing, he will read between the lines and find the information he seeks. 

As he starts toward his office, though, something catches his eye. The silhouette of a figure in near-darkness, illuminated only be the light of an overcast sky. Byleth. She stands in the Captain’s old office, a book in her hands. 

He has not had the chance to speak to her directly. It has only been a day since her return, and from what he’s been told, she held her classes as normal. Seteth hesitates for a moment, but he cannot simply leave her be. He stands in the doorway, hand resting against the frame. 

“Professor.” 

She does not turn to look at him. At first, she doesn’t even acknowledge him. She just stares at the open book, the binding wearing thin, the string that holds it together pulling free from the leather spine.

“He left this for me.” 

Her voice is painfully neutral. There is no grief, no sorrow, no anger. She says the words as if she feels nothing, speaking in a manner he has not heard from her since she first began working at the Academy. 

“A journal of some kind?” he guesses, taking another few steps into the room. 

She nods, silently scanning the pages. After a long moment, she adds, “He told me where to find it. In case something happened.” 

Guilt surges to life within him, the memory of Jeralt’s words all too fresh in his mind. He could not have anticipated this betrayal. He could not have known… could he? Part of him wishes to tell Byleth, but she is not in the frame of mind to make use of such information. She is surviving, and little more. 

He knows the feeling well. 

“Perhaps there is something he wished you to learn?” He tries not to lead her, but there are obvious truths Rhea is concealing. 

Truths Jeralt might have known, if his suspicions are correct.

Byleth just nods, her long fingers brushing distractedly over the worn cover before she closes the book. Of course she does not wish to share this with him. It is private, between her father and herself. He should not have interrupted. 

“It’ll have to wait,” she says, tucking the book away as she finally turns to face him. “Monica caught us off guard. I don’t want that to happen again.” 

Her pragmatism is not… uncharacteristic, exactly, but it reminds him of the young woman who first arrived at the monastery many months ago. She displays none of the emotion she’s gradually shown to him and to others, and her eyes are almost vacant. They stare back at him like pools that no longer even reflect what they perceive. Dull. Lifeless.

It is unnerving, to say the least.

He cannot stop himself from stepping forward. The door is open, so he maintains a respectable distance, but he rests a hand on her arm in a gesture that is more familiar than he has allowed in public thus far. She barely reacts, and her body feels strangely cold. 

Perhaps that is his imagination.

“I will give you your space, Professor. Grief is different for everyone, and I do not wish to smother you with my own worries,” he says, anxiety winding tight inside of him at the thought of just letting go. “But you know where to find me, should you ever need. Day or night. Truly.” 

He gives her arm the briefest squeeze, but her only response is the most forced smile he has ever seen from her. Her eyes barely meet his, something distant in them. It is a haunting image to be left with as she steps around him and out of her father’s old office. 

*** 

Every time he has seen her, she’s acted some approximation of normal. 

Normal to who she was before, perhaps. Normal in the most superficial sense of the word. It is enough to fool most, he believes, but not all. Certainly not him, nor Flayn. She expresses concern over the professor when they take their nightly meals, not-so-subtly encouraging him to seek her out again. 

Each time Seteth tells her he extended the invitation, and if she wishes to take it, she will. 

“Grief is a peculiar thing,” he’d said. “We do not all feel it the same way.” 

“How did you feel it? After Mother?” 

The question was not completely unexpected, but it still gave him pause. “Much the same way as the professor. There was too much to be done, and you…” 

She’d looked down at her plate, scooting greens across it with her fork. “Maybe it would have been different if I’d been well enough to stay with you.” 

Even thinking on it now, days after the fact, Seteth can still hear the edge of guilt in her voice. He hates it as much now as he did then.

“That is doubtful. You would have seen me at my worst,” he admitted. “We must speak no more of this, Flayn, but you cannot allow yourself to feel guilt over such a thing. I am thankful every day that you survived. I would have endured a thousand years, if that was what it took.” 

She’d said no more of it, but still every part of the conversation haunts him. He does not wish for her to feel guilt over something she could not control. It was many years, yes, but he would do it all over again if it meant seeing her wake healthy and whole. 

Because her condition before she’d slipped under…

Seteth pushes those thoughts from his mind, his eyes closing. He sits at his desk, the feather of his quill twitching as he writes out more detailed instruction for the knights. They are without a Captain presently, and though Alois is the obvious choice, he has temporarily taken over the job of administrator. 

It is not a position he enjoys, but it is what must be done. When Claude von Riegan knocks on his door, however, he cannot say he is displeased by the interruption. 

“Can I help you, Claude?” he sets the quill down in the inkwell and looks up at the young man. 

There is a smile on his lips, but it seems to exist only out of habit. “Hey, Seteth. I don’t wanna take up too much of your time, so I’ll keep this brief: I’m worried about Teach. She’s not acting like herself.” 

“Oh?” It feels cruel to share that he is well aware of this fact. Claude is simply trying to do something thoughtful for his professor. 

“Yeah.” His fingers rake through his hair. “Though I guess that’s not it, exactly. She’s acting the way she used to act. She’s always been a tough nut to crack, you know? But she’s softened up over the past few months.” 

Claude gives him a meaningful look Seteth chooses not to acknowledge. He has nothing to do with that. It is her students’ doing--and Claude himself, most likely. The slumbering beast inside of him rumbles in agitation. Seteth ignores that, as well. 

“She is still processing a terrible event. One that will likely define who she becomes,” he says, meeting Claude’s gaze. “You must give her time.” 

“That’s just it. I don’t think she _is_ processing.” The Golden Deer house leader steps deeper into his office, but does not bother to close the door. “I think she’s found a way to just… not deal with it. She’s gonna break soon, Seteth, and I’m worried about what it’ll do to her.” 

His brow furrows, his lips pressing into a tight line. He had not considered that her numbness might be by choice; that she is deliberately avoiding her own grief. That… changes things. 

“Anyway, I’ll let you get back to your work. I just thought it was important for you to know,” Claude says, his knuckles tapping against the back of the chair briefly before he turns to leave. 

_He has been speaking to Dorothea…_

But perhaps it is not the worst thing, so long as they are discrete. They obviously care for Byleth a great deal, and both seem to be aware of the fact that… he does, as well. It should frighten him. He cannot be so obvious.

Yet some part of him is pleased by it. He resolves to seek her out tomorrow, for better or worse.

*** 

Seteth never gets the chance. 

Late that night, there is a knock at his door. So soft that at first he believes it might be Flayn. 

“It’s open,” he calls, still at his desk, the tallow candle now melted to half its original size. 

He finishes the accounting then turns to look, expecting to see his daughter. It is certainly not her form silhouetted in the briefly open door, however. Seteth stands abruptly, his paperwork forgotten. If Byleth has sought him out, then he will give her his undivided attention.

As she steps into the flickering light of the candle, he sees the redness around her eyes. It is slight, but still noticeable. She has been crying. 

“You said I could come to you if I needed you, day or night.” 

“Of course,” he says, his expression softening considerably. 

She does not stop until she has nearly bridged the distance between them. This close, he can see the shadow under her eyes and the tracks her tears have made down her cheeks. The expression he reads from her is not one of sorrow, though. It is pure, unadulterated desperation.

“I need you now.” The hoarseness of her voice, the darkening of her eyes, both should warn him of what is to come.

Somehow Seteth is still surprised when she grips the collar of his shirt and tugs him down to her, capturing his mouth in a searing kiss. That surprise stills him for the longest time, but eventually it gives way to the need for physical connection. He kisses her back, his arms coming around her, fingers curling against the fabric of her coat. She is warm and solid and _safe_ against him, and that is perhaps the most validating part of all of this. 

Her hand immediately trails between them before Seteth even has a chance to respond. She is far more learned, far more dexterous than their initial trysts, and there is a need in her that asserts itself well above anything else. As if to prove that very fact, her hand slides over the front of his breeches and she palms him through the thin fabric.

His traitorous body responds to her, even as his mind screams at him to stop this. He wants her, yes. At this point he believes there will never be a time when he does not want her. But it cannot be like this. 

Seteth pulls back from her, his hand gently grasping her wrist. “Byleth,” he whispers her name against her lips. 

“_Please_.” The desperation in her voice, the emotion-roughened edge to it threatens to destroy him. “I need this.” 

“Distractions will only do so much. I promise you. The pain will return stronger than before.” His fingers curl gently around hers. “You must face this.” 

“I can’t. Seteth, please.” Tears fall, tracing faded paths. He _feels_ the tremor in her voice like a stab through his heart. “I ca--” 

She chokes on the words, a sob erupting from her as if she’s been exerting great effort just to hold it in. Seteth’s arms wrap around her once more, but this time he holds her tightly, his cheek resting against her hair. 

There is a keen difference in the desperation he feels when she clutches at him this time. Her fingers bunch in his shirt, but she just holds on as sobs wrack her body, overpowering her considerable strength. He strokes her hair and rubs soothing circles into her back, not saying a word as she violently cries against him. 

When she can no longer hold herself upright, he sinks down to the floor with her, all but cradling her in his arms. Every now and again he presses a kiss into her hair or runs his thumbs over her tear-streaked cheeks, but he never insults her with such platitudes as “it will all be all right” or “things will get better.” True as they might be, they will not help her now. They certainly did nothing to help Seteth, and he remembers feeling deep resentment for anyone who told him he would move past the death of those he loved. 

Eventually, Byleth’s tears slow, devolving into soft hiccups that would be adorable were they not so heartbreaking. She settles against him, her breathing even, and for the longest time he wonders if she has fallen asleep.

“You know…” She rests her cheek against him and sniffles. “I thought I might be missing out, but if this is what it’s like to feel everything…” 

Seteth’s lips quirk into a slight smile. “I confess I have sometimes wondered if it is worth it, as well. True grief, it…” 

“Feels like your soul’s being ripped from your body?” She lets out a wet, muffled laugh. “Not to be dramatic about it.” 

“I believe that description is apt.” His fingers thread through her hair, stroking gently. 

She shifts to look up at him, her eyes red-rimmed and swollen. “I guess you’ve dealt with this before.” 

“Many times.” 

“I’m… new to this. All of it,” she admits, curling tighter against him, her fingers bunching in the fabric of his shirt. “The last words my father said to me were essentially him being surprised I was crying over his death. What kind of daughter can’t cry over her own father?” 

There is a sharpness to her words, a bitterness existing just beneath the surface. Seteth knows he must tread carefully. 

“Everyone grieves differently, Byleth. Even if you had not cried, I am sure he would not believe you heartless.” 

A soft whoosh of air gusts against his arm. When he looks down, her expression is unreadable. She draws back slightly and takes his hand, lifting it to her breast. At first he is prepared to stammer out another excuse for why they should not engage in such things right now, but after a moment he realizes she’s placed his hand above her heart. 

A heart which is not beating.

No, he must be mistaken. He waits, counts out every measured breath she takes, feels his own pulse hammering in his ears. But still there is nothing. 

Seteth’s eyes widen. “How…?” 

“There’s something wrong with me, Seteth.” She says it so plainly, as if she has long accepted this fact. “It’s always been like this. No heartbeat, no emotion. My father wrote repeatedly about how strange it was that I never cried, even as a baby. He devoted pages to the fact that he could never get me to smile when I was younger.” Byleth lets out a bitter laugh. “I was his only child, and I was… this. This broken thing.” 

He has allowed her to speak, quite aware these are things she needs to unburden herself of, but he can abide this no longer. Seteth’s hands rest on either side of her face, forcing her to look at him. 

“You are not broken,” he says firmly, the words filled with conviction. “The idea that everyone must emote in the same way, must process things in the same way… it is preposterous.” 

And entirely human, as such judgments often are. That is perhaps a thought more suited to his brothers, though, so Seteth keeps it to himself. 

“Part of me liked going back to what I was,” she admits softly. “It was easier that way, but… I couldn’t keep it up. Something changed when Sothis awakened, when I met my students, when I…” 

The words trail off and she cannot meet his gaze, the slightest touch of color in her cheeks. He spares himself the agony of wondering how she might finish such a sentence. 

“I am afraid numbing oneself to it does nothing to truly abolish the pain. And you miss out on so much in the process.” 

“You speak from experience,” she says softly, resting her head more comfortably against his shoulder. 

“After my wife’s death, I withdrew from everything and everyone. I did what I needed to do to survive, and little else,” he admits. “The eventual breakdown was… Difficult. I cannot imagine she would have wished to see me in such a state.” 

“And your daughter?” 

Guilt overshadows his expression, his brow pinching with it. “Flayn was… fighting her own battle, of a sort. We were separated afterward, for some time. But yes… she would have been quite upset by it.” 

To his surprise, Byleth’s lips brush the underside of his jaw. There is nothing urgent or even especially purposeful in the action. It is affection for affection’s sake, he believes, and his heart feels lighter than this conversation warrants. 

“How did you cope?” she asks softly. “Once you let yourself feel it. I don’t… I’m not sure I see a way to pull myself up and do what needs to be done now.” 

“You accept help from those who care about you.” Her gaze lingers on him and he meets it. Surely it is no secret to her. Not now. “Had I been completely alone, I can assure you I would not have made it.” He pauses a moment, never tearing his gaze from hers. “Dorothea and Claude both spoke to me on your behalf. I am told your students saw to it that you returned safely to Garreg Mach. There are many people here who care about you, Byleth.” 

“Yes," she says softly. "One of them even let me soak his shirt with my tears.” There is the smallest smile on her lips, her fingers brushing over the damp fabric that covers his chest.

Seteth returns the smile, his thumb stroking her cheek. “And would gladly do so again, whenever you need.” 

“Thank you. I…” Her cheeks tint with color and she buries her face against him once more. “Thank you.” 

“Think nothing of it, my--” His mind slips so easily into the endearment, as if he has any right to call her _my love_. He corrects himself, smoothing over his near-slip. “My door is always open to you, Byleth, and my offer will always stand.” 

She says nothing for a time, but Seteth contents himself with the warmth of her in his arms and the soft, even sound of her breathing. 

“I don’t know that I want to be alone right now.” 

“Then stay.” It is not the first time he has made such an offer, but the context feels so different now. Deeper, even if he was very much in over his head the first time. “I imagine you must be exhausted.” 

She nods, his assessment seeming quite correct, as she can barely seem to hold her head up. She is in the midst of a crash, no doubt, and he can only be thankful that he is here. Shifting somewhat, he manages to get his feet under him and stands slowly, pulling her into his arms. He carries her with ease to the bed, laying her down with such careful measures. 

Byleth curls against his pillows, and he helps her out of her coat and boots, resting both nearby. He hesitates, then errs on the side of caution, attempting to step away from the bed so that he can sleep in a nearby chair. But Byleth does not allow it. She takes his hand, holding him there with surprising strength for how tired she obviously is.

“Stay. Please.” 

Even under normal circumstances, he finds it difficult to refuse her, and these are certainly not normal circumstances. He nods, then leaves only to snuff out the candle before he returns to her. She shifts closer to him as he climbs onto the mattress, and Seteth indulges in how very right it feels to hold her like this. 

“Wake me before dawn, and I’ll,” a yawn interrupts her, but he presses two fingers to her lips before she can finish the thought.

“Just rest,” he whispers. “I will handle the morning.” 

It would be proper to wake her; to ensure she is not seen leaving from his room. But at this moment, Seteth has no care for what is proper. Let them see. Let them think what they will. She allowed him to see this part of herself, and he refuses to squander such a carefully-given gift. 

His arms wrap more tightly around her, his protective instincts far stronger than his need to sleep. He listens to the sound of her breathing, feels her chest rise and fall against him until the breath she draws is deep and even. His lips smooth over her troubled brow, and when it finally eases, he allows himself to close his eyes and surrender to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You can yell at me on Twitter @daddaysofsummer if you're so inclined. I'll allow it for this one.


	12. The Fell Star

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry this one took so long! For those who don't follow me on Twitter, I had a big deadline that really drained me creatively and my muse apparently decided to take a mini-hibernation afterward. As we move into the holiday season, updates might be a little more sporadic. Like every couple weeks instead of weekly like I was trying to do. I like to try and take some time off at the end of the year, but to do that I have to work a lot beforehand, so yeah. 
> 
> Also I've gotten so behind on responding to comments. I'll try to catch up, but please know I read and deeply appreciate every single one of them. <3 
> 
> I hope this chapter was worth the wait. There's some sweet to go with the sad, and soft warning to those who don't care for explicit content--there's some in here. Whoops. 
> 
> Oh and I took lots of creative liberties with this, making Seteth a part of some things he's not canonically a part of.

She wakes in the middle of the night, ripped from a surprisingly peaceful sleep by a nightmare that’s all too close to reality. Byleth sees her father’s eyes grow dim, the life fading from them. But his final words to her are different this time.

_How could you let this happen? All that power… what did it even amount to, kid? You’re not meant for this. You’re not worth it._

She’s sure she cries out and likely even thrashes in her rush to get to him. It’s a shock to feel arms around her she knows are not his, to hear a soft, soothing voice as she regains consciousness. 

Seteth’s scent is familiar now, the warmth of his arms something that makes her feel safe in a way she never has before. She doesn’t quite remember his words, her mind still not functioning as it normally would, but she understands the sentiment. And she certainly understands when he practically rocks her in his arms--a gesture that might feel patronizing were he anyone else, but instead is surprisingly soothing, lulling her back to sleep. 

The next time she wakes, it isn’t to a nightmare, but to cold sheets beside her. His scent has faded, and for one crushing moment she wonders if she dreamed all of it. But she isn’t in her own room. She’s in his spacious quarters, tangled in his bedding, fully clothed outside of her coat and boots. 

It seems likely that he just went to do his job, something Byleth needs to steel herself to face. After her complete and utter breakdown last night, she’s not sure she can return to the same unemotional, growth-focused professor she’s been. But she can’t let her fawns down. If nothing else, they’ll worry about her. 

She pushes herself up with a groan, her muscles stiff from sleeping in the same position all night. Swinging her legs over the side of the bed, her stocking-clad feet touch a soft rug and she’s grateful for his foresight. She’s used to just stepping right onto the cold stone, the jolt enough to rouse her out of even the deepest fatigue. 

Byleth moves to the washroom--Seteth’s quarters really are _much_ larger than her own--and splashes water on her face, as if that’s going to help. She looks absolutely terrible. Her face is puffy, there are dark circles beneath her eyes, and she’s almost afraid to let her students see her like this. 

When the door to the main room opens, she realizes it isn’t just her students she has to worry about. 

Standing in the doorway, she watches as Seteth carries in a tray. The scent of toasted bread, gooseberry jam, and freshly-brewed tea reaches her, her stomach rumbling in response. Loudly, it seems. He turns to face her, relief flooding his features. Byleth offers a small, almost shy smile in return. 

“Ah. I was worried you might have left of your own accord.” 

“I was going to,” she admits, tucking a strand of hair behind her hair. She doesn’t remember the last time she felt this self-conscious. “I just assumed you had to work.” 

“Eventually,” he says, setting the tray atop a small table. “Please, have a seat.” 

She should return to her own room and get ready to face the day, but the offer of food is incredibly tempting right now. She honestly can’t remember when she last ate. Tempting, too, is the company. Perhaps even more than the food.

“Well, since you did go through the trouble of attempting to bring me breakfast in bed,” she teases lightly, trying to find her footing around him.

Something has changed between them. She can feel it, though she has no idea how to label it. The desire, the affection, she’s enjoyed them both but they pale in comparison to this. Some intimacy was exchanged between them last night; something she wouldn’t have offered freely, but doesn’t regret giving him in the least.

And yet again, she does not seem to be the only one adjusting. There is a slight flush in his cheeks, his gaze retreating from hers briefly as he pulls out a chair for her. She takes the offered seat and begins to pour herself a cup of tea as he sits opposite her. 

“I was unsure what you might like. I thought toast would be the least offensive offering, though.” 

She laughs quietly at his phrasing, catching his eye briefly to find he’s smiling, as well. The flutter beneath her breast makes her feel warm, but that self-consciousness returns once more, and Byleth decides to focus on preparing her toast. 

“I have arranged matters with Lady Rhea, and I shall be covering your classes today,” he says after several moments of silence. “I know you are not fond of the idea of someone else teaching them, but--” 

“No, I--” she frowns, looking down at her toast as she spreads jam across one side. “I appreciate it. Really. I wasn’t sure how I was going to face them today.” 

It’s so strange to think about. It wasn’t long ago that she was essentially telling him to stay out of her affairs and come nowhere near her fawns. Now she… does she trust him with them? Really? Byleth considers the man across from her. A man who kept her from self-destructing, let her fall apart without trying to fix her for his own comfort, brought her breakfast and took care of things so she didn’t have to. 

It’s an easy conclusion to draw: Yes, she does trust him. 

“Thank you,” she says softly. “For… everything.” 

It feels inadequate, but his soft smile makes her think he at least understands and appreciates the sentiment.

“It is the least I can do. But… I do hope it helps. I have experienced a great deal of loss in my life, and the kindness of others was the only thing that made it even slightly bearable.” 

His hand rests on the table beside his teacup, so Byleth makes the decision to rest hers over top. He’s warm and inviting, and the sensation of touching him so tenderly begins to spark a need in her that she barely understands.

“You’ve lost more than your wife, then?” she asks softly. 

“Many more.” His gaze is on their hands as he turns his beneath hers to grasp it. That same fluttering sensation alights in her chest once more. “I am afraid there are many elements of my family history which are not fondly remembered.” 

She nods, a frown touching her lips. It feels silly to offer her condolences, so Byleth remains quiet and just keeps holding his hand. Even as she reaches for a piece of toast, she doesn’t disrupt that connection. At least until she needs to spread jam on another piece. A blush warms her cheeks and Seteth chuckles warmly. 

It’s pleasant, but all throughout, that need for _something_ grows. She can’t identify what until the idea of leaving his quarters fills her with an ache that’s almost as deep as the one that’s been gnawing at her for days now. It’s not sorrow, exactly, but it’s a desire to not be alone. She doesn’t fear it, she just… doesn’t welcome it right now, either.

Once they finish breakfast, Byleth steels herself for the inevitable. He has to leave soon--it isn’t long before the morning bells will sound. Looking at him now, she feels the urge to thank him again, even though she’s already said as much. The decision to say it in another way is an easy one, though.

She stands before him, lifting a hand to his chest. Her palm smooths over his robes, up to his shoulder and then his neck. She can feel his pulse gradually pick up speed beneath her fingertips. It’s a fascinating sensation, so she keeps her hand there as she leans up to kiss him. 

What starts as a soft brush of lips slowly turns into something else. She lingers, exchanging breath with him before pressing her mouth more fully to his. The kiss is slowly deepened; achingly so, in a way that inexplicably makes her heart hurt. She’s never experienced anything like it before, and when she finally draws back, she’s left breathless. 

“Byleth…” His fingers thread into her hair, thumb stroking her cheek. 

“I don’t want to leave,” she admits in a near-whisper. “And it’s not the same as last night. I don’t…” 

She feels like she’s drowning again, thrashing about in waves she has no hope of combating. But looking into his eyes, she sees the path to the shore. 

And, like a strong hand reaching out to pull her free, he responds. “I know.” 

His lips return to hers, and that feeling of drowning is replaced by an enveloping warmth that touches every part of her. 

His arms come around her, strong and solid, holding her flush against him. She swears she can _feel_ the beat of his heart working through her as if it’s giving life to the silent one that dwells within her own breast. 

Her own arms wind around his neck, her fingers teasing at the soft hair at the nape. She’s never fully appreciated how _soft_ his hair is before. It seems like such a silly thing to fixate on, but the contrast between that and the firm planes of muscle pressing against her causes Byleth to shiver. A reaction that only continues as his tongue traces her lips, caressing and coaxing. Asking permission to make this more than it currently is. 

But he doesn’t have to ask. He doesn’t have to ask her for anything. She wants to give it, give all that she can, and opening for him feels like the smallest start to that. Letting out a soft sigh when his tongue strokes hers so slowly isn’t a concession in a battle for dominance, it’s an acceptance that they do and have always stood on equal ground in this. Byleth leans into it, into him, her nails scratching gently over his scalp as her hand threads through his hair. Her own arm slides over his shoulder now, seeking support as her knees threaten to go weak from that kiss. 

It’s such a strange thing to think about. They’re well acquainted with this--they certainly know each other’s mouths and a great deal about each other’s bodies. But she feels as if they’re learning anew, charting unexplored territory that will reveal so much more than she ever thought possible. 

She wants to tell him she’s never _done_ this before; to ask if he’ll teach her. But that feels silly and childish because they certainly have… just not like this. She can already tell this time is going to be different, and she decides to learn from him silently. She _needs_ to match him in this, so he knows…

_So he knows what?_ The question comes from her own mind, not Sothis. Byleth doesn’t have an answer yet, but she wants to find it in this. She wants that more desperately than she’s ever wanted anything. 

Large, callused hands move down her back and beneath her. She understands immediately, her grip on him tightening in anticipation as he lifts her into his arms. Byleth isn’t _light_ by any means. She’s built of lean muscle, her body hardened by a lifetime of training. But he carries her as if it’s no trouble at all to do so; as if he barely has to exert himself. That does something to her that’s equally as powerful as when he flipped her in the training yard. This time, it just makes her smile against his neck before she presses a kiss to his fluttering pulse point.

He lays her down on the bed with the utmost tenderness, and Byleth reaches for him as he climbs atop her, resuming their kiss. An eternity seems to pass where neither of them make any move to further the experience. They just kiss, trading breath between them, hands exploring with no real agenda and certainly without haste. Her fingers are buried in his hair, her leg hitched over his. It isn’t until she absently traces the curve of his ear that her blood begins to catch any kind of urgent fire, the soft moan he lets out unfurling inside of her. 

She’s the first to reach for clothing, nimble fingers going to the buttons of his coat, the ornament that holds his belt in place, the tassels that accompany it. He’s cooperative, eager, shrugging out of what he can and helping her remove the rest in between working her clothing free as well. They part from each other only when it’s necessary, returning often to meet in slow, breathless kisses and the touch of questing fingers thoroughly enjoying every new inch of bared skin. 

Eventually they’re both left only in their smallclothes, though Seteth is quick to remove the cloth binding her breasts. He kisses a path to them, his lips tracing the valley between before moving outward. Her nipples have hardened into peaks before he even reaches them, and she gasps when he draws one carefully between his lips, her fingers threading into his thick, soft hair. He’s gentler than before, but just as thorough as she’s ever known him to be, lavishing attention upon one nipple and then the other, even as his fingers work at the ties of her smallclothes. 

She has no idea how he manages it. She can’t focus enough to remember her own name right now, but somehow he’s managing to send shockwaves of pleasure rippling through her while remaining as dexterous as ever, the ties pulling free, linen loosening on her hips. She’s flushed and already panting when he draws away, a soft whimper escaping her. The deep, rumbling chuckle he gives in response curls her toes, and she bites her lip hard enough to feel a slight shock of pain as his fingers hook into her smallclothes. 

The expectation is that he might kiss a fiery path down her body and settle between her thighs, but Seteth seems to have something else in mind. Once her undergarment is removed, he trails a hand along her calf and thigh, gently easing her legs apart. Then he stretches out beside her on the bed, his free hand cupping her face with such tenderness as he draws her into a slow, meandering kiss. Her breath hitches, a gasp muffled against his mouth as long fingers venture inward, stroking through the thatch of dark curls to delve between her folds. 

She’s already wet. Even if this encounter hasn’t been as intense as the others, her body is well aware of what she needs. So is Seteth, his fingers coaxing pliant flesh, circling her clit but not quite touching. Byleth draws in a shaky breath, reaching out for him as the full length of his body rests beside her. The pad of his thumb finally strokes over that sensitive bud, lighting nerves aflame and making her gasp. He takes the opportunity to press his mouth to her neck, lips skimming up to her jaw. 

Byleth wants to turn to him, wants to put her hands on him and return the favor, but he feels out of her reach and what he’s doing with his fingers makes it impossible for her to concentrate. They have a refined dance all their own, playing her body like the finest instrument. A rolling stroke against her needy clit, a sweep downward through slick, parted folds, the crescendo coming when he delves one digit inside of her welcoming body, meeting no resistance. She arches off of the bed for him, a gasp falling from her lips.

“That’s it,” he coaxes, his voice like warm velvet so close to her ear. 

A second finger joins the first as he nuzzles against her neck, the tickle of his beard sending ripples of pleasure across her skin in this oversensitive state. Again she wants to pull him to her, to take some ownership over the situation, but her body seems at war with what her stubborn mind desires, and Seteth is certainly tuned in to one more than the other right now, his sympathies very clearly resting with her body.

Teeth skim her neck, drawing another gasp from her, the sound deepening into a fractured moan as his long fingers crook inside of her. He angles his hand exquisitely, the heel of his palm rubbing against her attention-starved clit, and white-hot pleasure bursts in building ripples behind her eyes. 

“Seteth…” 

With every stroke, he coaxes her closer and closer to the point of letting go. At some point she understands what he’s doing--truly understands it. He’s taking care of her. Not just in regards to her pleasure, but in every way. Ensuring that--at least for today--she has as little to worry over as possible. 

She’s always been so independent. She was raised from an early age to recognize the danger in the world; to fend for herself because there wouldn’t always be someone there for her. She’s prided herself on how well she can adapt and survive such harsh conditions, and all of that came crumbling down the moment she was actually left alone. 

She doesn’t want to rely on someone, but this careful attention from Seteth doesn’t feel as if it’s stripping away her agency. It isn’t pandering, nor does she assume he finds her incapable of going on without him. He’s just lending her his strength, offering everything he can in service of whatever she needs. It feels less like a concession and more like a partnership, and that realization is what truly breaks her. 

Byleth’s cry is choked, almost like a sob of true release as pleasure crashes over her body. Seteth’s lips remain pressed to her neck and he murmurs soft words into her skin, speaking a language she doesn’t understand. She can’t be sure if it’s truly beyond her ken, or if her bliss-addled mind simply can’t grasp it. Her hand--shaky as it is--reaches up to twine in his green locks, holding tight to him as lasting ripples cascade over her body. It’s not the most intense orgasm she’s ever had, but she feels as if some kind of weight has been lifted when it subsides; as if someone has wrung out her troubled emotions like a cloth.

He presses a kiss to the corner of her mouth and Byleth smiles, managing enough presence of mind--and body--to finally roll onto her side. She climbs over top of him this time, her limbs shaking slightly as she holds herself up. Again she’s reminded of their sparring session, but the mood is far different. There’s still desire, still a keen sense of anticipation and interest in the man beneath her, but something far less frenetic exists there now. 

She can see it reflected in his lovely eyes, their emerald depths shining up at her, eased into the slightest crescents, creasing in the corners with his smile. The expression there is one she’s slowly beginning to understand. It’s the same feeling that flutters in her breast, though she’s yet to name it. 

“I’d like to take care of you,” she tells him, a slight, husky rasp to her voice as she reaches down between them. Fingers caress hot, velvety skin and she delights in his hiss of breath, “but I need you. Badly.” 

Another breath is forced from his lips in a gust of warmth against hers. “You will hear no argument from me. There is nothing I wish more.” 

She leans closer and smiles against his lips, situating herself to straddle him. “Always so proper. Even when I’m telling you how much I need your cock inside of me.” 

Something flares to life in his eyes, his pupils narrowing just so, flecks of gold catching the light. It’s not as pronounced as the first time they did this, but it’s there, beckoning her. She wants to know, wants to ask him even now. It must have something to do with his ears; with those things he can’t tell her. 

Instead she positions him where she needs him most and sinks down slowly, right as he begins to answer her.

“One of us has to remain pro--” The groan he lets out is extremely gratifying, her walls clenching around him in response as he thighs settle flush with his own. 

“You were saying?” It’s a struggle for her to speak, but she can’t resist teasing him.

Seteth answers by drawing her into a kiss, one hand at the back of her head, fingers tangling in her hair. In this position, she isn’t able to ride him with the ferocity her body demands, but… she doesn’t want to. For once Byleth listens to and satisfies her heart, hips rocking against him, lifting just enough to provide the friction they both crave. His fingers skim over her hipbone, providing guidance, but he doesn’t attempt to control her movements in any way. He barely even lifts to meet her, just the involuntary twitches and jolts of his hips answering her motions.

With such a slow, tender coupling, it takes Byleth longer to reach the edge of climax again. But in the meantime, she’s able to memorize his lips and mouth anew, to look down into his beautiful eyes, to hear every little gasp as it leaves him. She can tell when he gets close, because the most adorable little crease works its way into his brow, far different from the look she’s seen when he’s disappointed. She presses her lips to that line and smooths it, but it gradually returns, his nails digging into her skin, his thighs a harder cushion beneath her as he grows closer still. 

Another benefit of doing things this way. She feels in tune with him, and by the time his breathing becomes irreparably shallow, she already knows.

“Byleth… I’m close…” 

Some part of her wants to keep going, to ride him to completion, but she knows how very prudent he is. The last thing she wants him to feel is guilty, as if he’s somehow let this get away from him a second time. In the spirit of allowing him that wish for caution, she doesn’t resist in the slightest when the hand at her hip moves inward, fingers seeking out her clit. Her pace _does_ pick up in response--she can’t help it--but it doesn’t take long to shatter, and she makes use of her shaking muscles to lift herself off of him. 

Her hand is a poor replacement, in her humble opinion, but she strokes him to climax even as the aftershocks of her own ripple through her. Her name escapes his lips in the most delicious gasp, her lips skimming the hollow of his throat to feel the vibrations of that sound and the rapid pounding of his heartbeat. She lays with him for a while after, exchanging lazy touches and kisses, not at all eager to be parted from him. 

And it’s in that moment, gazing upon the man who’s taken such care with her, that Byleth believes she can put a name to the feeling that tightens in her breast before it unfurls like one of the monastery cats basking in the sunshine. 

Love. Though she’s never experienced it before, there’s no doubt in her mind. 

She loves him.

_Good of you to finally catch on,_ Sothis taunts, her tone not unkind. _Now what do you intend to do about it?_

*** 

She tells herself she’ll let him know once things have calmed down a bit; once it’s not so close to her father dying. She doesn’t want him to think she’s just developed some kind of dependency on him, and perhaps she’s convincing herself of that, too. Even if deep down she knows she’s felt this way for a while.

But things never do calm down. She should have known better, honestly. Jeralt always told her: _If you spend your whole life waiting for things to be less than shit, you’ll be waiting until you’re dead, kid._

Never has that advice felt more applicable… or more prophetic. 

The moment the scouts locate Monica, she’s ready to go, some primal thirst for blood thrumming deep in her veins. Claude and the rest of her fawns support her without hesitation. She doesn’t want to get them caught up in her quest for vengeance, but at this point even Byleth can acknowledge she needs them.

Seteth, however, is… less than enthused. He brings up the issue while she’s in the midst of talking to Rhea, reminding her of how paranoid and judgmental he’d been at first.

“You cannot allow this, Lady Rhea. I understand the desire for justice, but the professor is too close to the matter. It is too dangerous.” The last he says directly to Byleth, a plea in his eyes.

“I am inclined to agree,” Rhea says, “but I also know I cannot stop you. If someone had harmed my own family, I would wish to personally tear them limb from limb. Nothing else would suffice.” 

It’s not the first time Byleth has felt the hairs on the back of her neck stand on end when she speaks to Rhea, a sense of fear coiling in her stomach like a hare that knows it’s being stalked by a wolf. More and more, the Archbishop has lapsed into moments of divine fury, transitioning between that state and her normal calm as if it is nothing of consequence. 

This time, Byleth suspects Rhea has done exactly as she describes before. At least once. Likely more than that. It’s terrifying, but it’s also an endorsement--of a sort. 

“If you are going to condone such behavior, then I will be joining her on this mission,” Seteth asserts.

That _does_ surprise her, her eyes widening. Not just because of the sentiment he’s expressing, but because he’s directly challenging the Archbishop to do it.

“Absolutely not. The professor is more than capable--” 

“I am afraid this is not open to debate, Lady Rhea.” 

“You and I have already spoken of this, Seteth. I would ask that you not allow your emotions to overrule your good sense.” Though her expression is neutral, even Byleth can hear the strain in her voice. 

Something serious is happening; some feud that she suspects has been long-coming, with more grievances between the two than just this. 

“And _I_ would ask that you trust me to do what is right for Garreg Mach,” he counters. “You know I feel at least partially responsible for Monica, Tomas, and every other viper who has slithered throughout this campus unimpeded. I would wish the chance to ensure the safety of students and faculty alike.” 

It’s a reasonable request, and one Rhea ultimately approves. As she’s dismissed, though, Byleth can’t help wondering if the Archbishop is right: if it’s emotion that’s guiding him, not some practical sense of duty. 

That’s not a question she even knows how to ask, and she’s grateful enough for his presence that she doesn’t wish to. 

He joins them atop his wyvern, Tethra, a battalion of other wyvern riders at his back. They follow the reports of the Knights, walking into what is almost certainly a trap in the Sealed Forest. Claude plans a counter-snare and Byleth allows him to take on a leadership role, not trusting herself to plan anything more thoughtful than an all-out assault. Normally it wouldn’t be a problem. She’s always had a cool head for battle, as much as she has for everything else. 

But that last night as they make camp, all she can see when she closes her eyes are her father’s staring up at her before they dim forever. 

The approach goes well. Seteth and Hilda flank opposite sides, with Byleth leading a push through the center, Lorenz and Sylvain accompanying her. They meet with fierce opposition, but it’s nothing they haven’t torn through before. Soon enough, Monica--_Kronya_\--reveals herself, and it takes Byleth every ounce of training and restraint to keep from rushing the woman. 

That and a concerned glance from Seteth, who’s kept a subtle eye on her the entire time. 

They push on, following Claude’s plan. He, Ignatz, and the other archers move silently through the trees to line up their shots while the more obvious attackers take point. Byleth’s fingers clench hard around the Sword of the Creator as she stares down the woman who murdered her father. 

And then everything happens in a blur. Her fawns support her, lending their distraction and might to keep Kronya’s troops occupied. They open the way for her, giving her ample opportunity to confront the woman directly. She has Kronya on her knees by the end of it, her blade ready to deliver the final judgment. 

But as she advances, retribution in her heart, a burden ready to be lifted from her soul… something stops her. Certainly not her conscience or even Sothis. She _knows_ this is right. 

No, this is a force she cannot control. Magic she cannot penetrate. Solon appears, taking her opportunity away from her. Stealing her _right_ to this. He tears out Kronya’s heart as Byleth herself has imagined doing, and all she can feel is cold rage. A roar of fury pierces her throat and she charges the man, ignoring the warnings from Seteth and Claude. 

She never makes it to Solon, either. 

Black flames suddenly surround her, covering the ruins in darkness. There’s no smoke, no heat. They just seem to swallow the light, sound--everything, until there’s nothing left. And suddenly Byleth stands in complete blackness, absolutely everything in the world gone from existence. 

Panic sets in mere moments later. There’s no one here in this cold, dark place. Not even Sothis, at first. But after an instant of pure terror, Byleth finally hears her familiar voice. Naturally she’s… displeased. It was foolish. She can admit that now. But that doesn’t change anything about their current situation. According to Sothis, the only thing that _can_ change it is…

Unthinkable. 

It’s not the fact that it’s blasphemy to consider merging with a literal _goddess_. Byleth really doesn’t know if it is or not and she doesn’t particularly care. It’s just… she never asked for this. Any of it. She was never fit to be a _vessel_, let alone… whatever this would make her. 

_I fear we no longer have a choice,_ Sothis tells her. _Either I lend you my power, or we both just lay down and die._

She’s right. There is no choice. For as much as her life has been redefined, for the many rungs she’s been knocked down, she isn’t ready to die. There are people counting on her. People she cares about, who care about her. 

Byleth owes it to them to fight, and so she allows it. She _feels_ Sothis’ energy flow through her, merging with her own. Her heart flares to life for the briefest instant, one resounding beat before it goes dormant once more. The Sword of the Creator has new weight in her hand, new power, and she uses it as if on instinct to do something she never would have imagined: rending through space and time, altering reality to suit her own needs.

Nothing about it makes sense, but soon she’s back in the forest, facing down Solon with her students and Seteth at her side. They stare at her, wide-eyed--especially Seteth--but there’s no time for questions or the answers she isn’t sure she can give. They have to finish this, something they manage with absolutely no trouble thanks to Byleth’s new abilities. 

They return victorious… in a sense. Kronya is dead, and so too is Solon. But vengeance doesn’t feel as complete as she would have liked, and the question of what she even _is_ now plagues her the entire trip home. 

She seeks out Seteth at the earliest opportunity, knowing that even if he doesn’t have an answer, he can at least put her at ease. He’s watched her like a hawk since it happened, and she can tell there’s something on his mind. But carving out that time isn’t easy. Rhea corners her, asking a million questions of her own. Manuela and Flayn insist on checking her over, yet again, even though there’s nothing physically wrong with her, and Hanneman can’t stop talking about the effect this must have had on her crest.

All she wants is peace and quiet, and by the time she makes it to Seteth’s quarters that evening, she almost just wants to curl up and sleep. He’d probably let her, despite his obvious worry. 

When he opens the door, though, and she looks into those concerned and somewhat confused emerald eyes, she realizes she can’t just ignore this. It’s bothering her. It’s bothered her from the moment Solon’s body lay cooling in the grass, her task finally done. 

“I don’t… know who I am anymore,” she blurts out as Seteth puts some tea on for her. “I don’t know what any of this means. Maybe I was never anyone to begin with. Maybe this is what my life was always meant to be.” 

He returns from fussing with the kettle and places his hands on her arms, squeezing gently. She looks up at him with tear-filled eyes, but for once she doesn’t want him to pull her into an embrace. She doesn’t want him to help her forget. 

She needs something else. Something more tangible that’s going to help her make sense of this, because it’s not going away. This is who she is now. Eyes and hair changed so dramatically that Byleth doesn’t even recognize herself in the mirror anymore. 

Seteth, however, looks at her just as he did yesterday and the day before that. His gaze is calm, steady, and something she immediately finds herself clinging to as if it's some jagged rock piercing the tumultuous waves. 

He knows, of course. He knows what she needs right away, and he provides it.

“I do not believe that is true, not in any sense. You may have been host to the goddess, Byleth, but there is far more to you than that. This is just... “ His jaw tightens and he looks away from her. “Yet another thing that was cast upon you; beyond your control. I am truly sorry for that.” 

“It’s not like it’s your fault. Unless there’s something you need to tell me.” 

She gives him a half-smile, but it slowly fades at his pained look, the emerald in his eyes seeming to crack with tiny splinters of gold. 

“There is something, isn’t there,” Byleth says, feeling as if the wind’s been knocked out of her. 

His eyes close briefly, that expression of anguish only deepening. When he opens them again, she can see his apology. And though Byleth has never needed to do so before, she shores up the defenses around her heart, knowing that’s the most vulnerable part of her right now.

“We have not been completely honest with you. _I_ have not been honest with you, and I am sorry for that. We… should probably sit,” he says, gesturing to the small couch in his quarters, his hand on her arm gently guiding.

Some form of petulance rises in her, wanting to deny him this. But she knows it’s almost certainly related to the secret he’s kept all this time--the secret he needed to keep so that he and Flayn would be safe. Any spitefulness she feels is washed away by that realization, and she lets him lead her to the couch, sitting beside him.

“I am not entirely sure how to begin this confession, so I apologize in advance if I stray off track,” he says, hand resting on his thigh, fingers flexing nervously. “You… know me as Seteth. It is what I have been called since returning to Garreg Mach. It is a part of me now, one I would not forsake. But it is not all there is to me.” 

Her brow furrows as she tries to follow along, already forming more questions that need answers. She lets him continue, though, not wanting to interrupt.

“I am… older than I look, Byleth. Much older. I have been part of many events that shaped the world as it exists now.” 

_Ancient_. Something in her recognizes this; recognizes the concept he’s trying to express. In her mind’s eye, Byleth is shown a memory that absolutely is not her own. Four children, all with green hair and pointed ears. They look so familiar and she views them all with such fondness, but she cannot place them.

“My true name, the person I truly am, is--” 

A knock on the door interrupts, Byleth nearly jumping out of her skin with the surprise of it. 

“Seteth, I apologize for interrupting, but it is an urgent matter.” 

Rhea. Of course it’s Rhea. He looks at her, expression stricken with guilt. Byleth forces a smile and reaches for his hand, giving it a squeeze. 

“Go,” she says softly. “We can talk later. I… should speak to my students, anyway. They’ll have questions.” 

Questions she doesn’t have the answers to, but it will at least keep her mind occupied. Otherwise she’s going to spend the entire time wondering who those green-haired children were, and what they have to do with Seteth’s true identity. 

*** 

Seteth’s list of grievances against his sister grows by leaps and bounds as she “suggests” Byleth visit the tomb in attempt to channel the goddess. He wants to argue with her, to tell her this quest is fruitless and obsessive, but he knows it will amount to nothing. Seiros will accuse him of not loving their mother as much as she does, and perhaps that is true. 

He would never jeopardize the health and safety of another just for the _chance_ to speak with her.

All Seteth can do is return to Byleth after this absolute mockery. He owes her the truth, he wants her to know, and it’s well past time that someone was completely honest with her. 

But he never gets the chance.

They are attacked in the tomb, and by a student, no less. Once again he has failed Garreg Mach, though this time they all pay the price for it. Byleth is able to deter Edelgard from taking the crests, but she escapes with her life, her forces certain to assemble elsewhere--if they have not done so already. 

There is no time to speak, no time even to breathe. They must prepare the defenses, because it soon becomes clear that the Empire has planned this for some time. Edelgard’s army tears through the nearby villages with little regard for the lives of those she claims to protect. It is enough to spark a fury within him, but the true rage does not come until they approach his home. 

Though his own beast may be dormant, it still feels a protective, territorial urge that flares to life at the thought of someone ransacking its lair. And that is without sparing a thought toward the friends and family that could be harmed--or outright killed--by this senseless feud. 

All he can do is fight to the very last breath. He knew it would come to this one day, but the fact that it must be so soon--and before he has said the things he needs to say…

He catches Byleth’s regard as he guides Tethra to flank Garreg Mach’s assembling army. She looks resolute, but the sorrow of this event is etched deep into her soul. Edelgard might not have been her student, but she was still in the care of the Officers Academy, and that strikes all of them deeply. 

Alois gives orders, assuming the role Jeralt has left vacant. The Knights advance, then the battalions, and finally those commanding them--students and faculty alike. They are all having to mature in the blink of an eye, but there is little choice in the matter. This has become their home, too, and it is their future at stake.

Edelgard is well-organized, and that anger builds within Seteth as he considers how many of the monastery’s resources have gone directly toward this attempted coup; this slight against the goddess Herself. This runs deeper than blasphemy. It is complete and utter betrayal, and he will not stand for it. 

When the armies first clash, the light of dawn peeking over distant mountains, Seteth considers them evenly matched. It will be hard fought, but they will win out in the end. They have experience on their side, and Byleth has taken down forces far greater than herself. As the day progresses, though, those front lines are cut down. Edelgard’s distant forces advance, archers and mages lobbing arrows and spells into their troops, thinning out their numbers. Some of Seteth’s own wyvern riders are picked off, and he is forced to fall back to avoid the onslaught of arrows aimed straight for Tethra. 

As dusk begins to fall, their numbers are down significantly. So many of their battalions have been crushed, leaving the commanders to fight tooth and nail just to hold their ground. It is too much. The cost of defending this place will mean near complete annihilation, and there is no guarantee they will pull through. They have failed. _He_ has failed. 

Scanning the horizon, Seteth searches out his kin. He can sense his daughter nearby, well-barricaded by a solid mass of horseflesh and heavy armor, cavalry units advancing before her. It is not enough to soothe his worries completely, but for now she is focused on healing one of her classmates. Reaching out further, he catches a hint of his sister high above them. Byleth is there, too, though her purpose is unclear. 

She is safe, and that is all that matters.

As Seteth prepares to issue a command to his troops, he feels a strange shift in the energy around him. Familiar, but something he has not experienced in ages. A frisson ripples through him, excitement thrumming through his veins, frustration clawing at his insides. The creature inside wants out, urgently, but it has no means of escape. Cichol will never take that form again.

Seiros, however…

A bellowing cry pierces the battlefield as scales of shimmering white reflect the fading sun. The Immaculate One propels herself high into the air, a shadow streaking across their numbers, bathing everyone in temporary darkness. Envy coils within Seteth, so strong he can practically taste it. He wants to fly beside her, to teach their foes the true fury of the Nabateans. 

He must settle for directing Tethra to assist her, intercepting the other flying units that attempt to rush his sister in the sky. He impales one with his lance and cleaves through another with a well-timed axe before he is tied up in earnest combat. While he is otherwise occupied, the Immaculate One cries out in pain. A quick glance shows her being set upon by beasts, but he is too far to aid her. Seteth accepts the punishment for looking away. The edge of a blade tears open his cheek and he snarls, impaling the attacker swiftly with the thrust of his lance. He wheels Tethra about, banking hard to come to his sister’s aid, but there is no need.

Byleth is there, in the midst of it all. She buys Seiros time, the resonant growl of his sister’s voice something he can feel deep in his soul. She shakes off the other beasts, lifting into the air again. Seteth exchanges a look with Byleth, giving her a simple nod before he returns to clearing out the left flank. 

They _must_ fall back, even with the Immaculate One on their side. But in order to do that, their troops need to have a means of escape. He works desperately on securing one, commanding others to aid him in the task. It consumes his focus, yet some distant awareness prickles at the back of his neck, curling sickeningly against his skin like the putrid breath of a demonic beast preparing to crush his vertebrae into dust. 

Unfathomably dark magic. He turns to see a man he does not recognize, his gaze set on Byleth. Matter pulls together before him, coalescing into a blast that would certainly level the monastery were it aimed toward the structure. But it is not. It is aimed toward one woman.

“Byleth!” 

He calls out to her, pushes Tethra with blinding speed, but the spell is cast, the magic consuming everything in its path. Byleth tries to defend herself, and though she manages not to be swallowed by it, the Sword of the Creator cannot save her. She is forced back, farther and farther until the ground disappears beneath her feet.

Her name tears from his throat again in a desperate bid to do _something_. Anything. As she disappears into blackness, Seteth very nearly follows; very nearly abandons everything to save her. But Tethra cries out in pain, the sound pulling Seteth from his futile goal as he realizes he has left himself open for several bowmen to snipe at will. 

He pulls back, his heart shattering as he stares down into the blackness of that pit. Even as he gets enough distance to be safe, he expects her to somehow return--to see her fingers grasping the edge of the newly-formed cliff. She has done it before. She has escaped a fate worse than death, only to return in the most miraculous way.

But minutes pass. An hour. Seteth has no choice but to fall back with the rest, and still he does one last pass. She is not there. He cannot _feel_ her any longer. 

Byleth is lost, and in the span of another pointless battle, one more piece of Cichol’s soul is carved away, never to be restored.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed! You can come yell at me @daddaysofsummer on Twitter if you like. I mostly RT 3H fanart and dumb memes.


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